<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Music of Eternity by Lucy_Claire</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26911105">Music of Eternity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy_Claire/pseuds/Lucy_Claire'>Lucy_Claire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Canon Era, Crusades, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani &amp; Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, First Kiss, Getting Together, Historical Inaccuracy, Honeymoon, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, Light BDSM, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Modern Era, Post-Movie: The Old Guard (2020), Pre-Canon, Pre-Movie, Pre-Movie: The Old Guard (2020), Renaissance Era, Sexual Roleplay, That Time In Malta, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Victorian era</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:16:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>67,256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26911105</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy_Claire/pseuds/Lucy_Claire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, alternatively, <i>Kaysanova Through The Ages</i>.<br/>_______________________________________________________________________________________________________</p><p>Follow Yusuf and Nicolò’s lives and deaths from the day they met to after the close call with Merrick, navigating their relationship and the changing world throughout the millennia, shaping history, saving lives, influencing art, outcomes and maybe a few conspiracy theories. </p><p>Watch them forge a bond unlike any has ever seen, unyielding in their devotion, not to any king, god or force, but each other—<i>while still finding time to vacation to Malta.</i><br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>188</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic is in Joe's POV, we'll see his life from the Crusades til Modern Day/Movie-time.</p><p>My life has been a hectic disaster, but once I heard about Joe inspiration struck me with a mallet like Bugs Bunny.<br/>This was a chance for me to explore a lot of my own feelings as a MENA person about history and religion--I feel like Joe went through the same motions--and I get to finally make use of my cultural/ethnic background in fandom so YAY!</p><p>The title is taken from <i>The Beauty of Death</i> by Khalil Gibran</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh companion of my soul, where are you? Are you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Praying in the temple? Or calling Nature in the</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Field, haven of your dreams?</em>
</p><p>A Lover’s Call, Khalil Gibran</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Yusuf had known a small handful of people with green eyes in Egypt, three of which were his childhood friend, Kyriakos, his mother, Sophia, and sister Layal. Kyriakos was a Copt whose father, Mena, worked with Yusuf’s uncle Wisam in Alexandria, managing the trading ships that docked on their end of the Mediterranean.</p><p>The last time he saw them was before he had departed to fight the invaders from the north, to spare the Holy Land from their unwelcome scourge. He vividly remembered standing near the shore, a place he had come to frequently before he had moved to Cairo to help his father establish their stake in the mercantile business of the capital. In the separation, their correspondence had become a game of sorts, to see which one of them had a better grasp on the languages of their trade. They primarily wrote to each other in Greek, something that was easier for Kyriakos due to the language’s alphabet being similar to Coptic.</p><p>They had stood on the wall separating the city from the beach, watching the salty waves crash upon the shore as the sun rose from the sea.</p><p>“I’ve been meaning to ask, but I didn’t want to risk upsetting you. It’s hard to communicate tone in text,” said Yusuf, trying to visualize what laid on the other end. Before he departed for the north, his mother had asked why he couldn’t just move eastward, head to the Holy Land through the Red Sea. He’d told her that it was simpler this way, with more established sail routes and that was there the rest of the conscripted and volunteers had grouped. It wasn’t a lie, but he had wanted to see Alexandria one more time, just in case he didn’t return from the war.</p><p>He wanted to take a good hard look at what had been the crown jewel of antiquity, what once held the Library of Alexandria, which had painfully perished in flames nearly sending the Near East into a Dark Age, and where the lighthouse of Pharos had stood.</p><p>Yusuf had also hoped to see Kyriakos again.</p><p>“What is it that you couldn’t disclose in a letter?” Kyriakos asked, moving closer, his short black curls dancing in the wind, his green eyes appearing almost grey in the dim, clear light of the early morning. “Are you having heretical thoughts again?”</p><p>Yusuf snorted. A staple topic in their boyhood conversations had been faith, and why there were so many variations of it. They were hardly personal, not like how most around them were, but his father, Ibrahim, a clever man with an insatiable curiosity that he had passed down to his son, didn’t agree with the belief that one kind of superior to the rest.</p><p>“Money has no creed,” he had told him as a child, as he had Yusuf sit at the table with and count the results of the latest export. “Refusing to serve or trade or deal with people because you disagree with them is not only petty, but bad for business. It’s also a good way to make sure you have no goodwill with others should your own turn on you.”</p><p>“Even if they’re infidels?” Yusuf’s mother had always grumbled about his father dealing with Jews, having Christian business partners and befriending a Sunni heretic who had moved here from Baghdad, like their mere presence would contaminate their minds and souls. His father had always ignored her, reminding her that they had named their sons Yusuf and Adam, names that united all three faiths, his in particular was that of a prophet and the stepfather of the penultimate prophet Issa, who the Copts worshipped as God himself.</p><p>“Better an infidel ally than an enemy who shares your beliefs. You’ll meet plenty of the latter in your life.”</p><p>He sometimes wondered what his father truly believed, but he’d never have the chance to find out now, as his father’s unholy penchant for wine had gotten the better of him. It was a good thing his only brother, Adam, was now a young man of nineteen, able to hold their father’s trade and be the man of the house while Yusuf was gone. He wouldn’t have felt good about leaving their mother and Yasmina undefended in the middle of Cairo.</p><p>In retrospect, his father was a very open-minded man. He would have been deeply disappointed in the state their world had suddenly found themselves in.</p><p>“Yusuf,” Kyriakos called, touching his arm, making shivers course through him, raising every hair. It was a good thing it was chilly here, even at this time of year, he could blame any strange reactions on the weather. “Where did you go? Are you composing poetry in your head again?”</p><p>Yusuf couldn’t help smile, elbowing Kyriakos softly. “I was thinking of what my father would think of the War of the Cross.”</p><p>“Crusades, they’re calling it,” Kyriakos said bitterly. “Is that what you wished to ask me in your letters?”</p><p>Yusuf’s ears suddenly became very warm. “Yes, I wanted to know your thoughts, if you approved, and why.”</p><p>“That’s the thing, I don’t. I don’t think a lot of us here do.” Kyriakos scratched behind his head, sighing. “It’s not like the Catholics have much love for us either.”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>Kyriakos tutted at him. “You know this, we’ve discussed it before.”</p><p>Yusuf knew for a fact they had, but all he remembered about that particular discussion, in an office where Kyriakos’ father and Yusuf’s uncle had stuck them in there for hours—telling them to handle the boring aspects of trade for practice—they found bottles of Persian white wine and used it to soften the tension headaches brought on by checking the logs and numbers.</p><p>He remembered his guard lowering, the windows open to the cool night breeze, the flames of their lanterns flickering softly, and how the only sound for what felt like miles was their laughter. At one point, Kyriakos had leaned against him, boneless, smelling of wine, ink, and basil, when he turned his head up to continue speaking, his lips moved against Yusuf’s neck.</p><p>Moments like that were few and far between, and they always meant far more to him than they did to anyone else. But they stuck with him, like a stain on the fabric of his mind. A reminder that he yearned for something forbidden and abhorred by everyone for how unnatural it was.</p><p>Only bold, powerful men could get away with it. There were whisperings of common men who did partake, even with the explicit warnings from their parents, the ahadith espoused by imams and verses preached by priests, and the tales of fire and brimstone that branded themselves under his skin. The common name for them was <em>Luti</em>, after Lut, the nephew of the prophet Ibrahim, and specifically the fate of his people in Sodom and Gomorrah and the perverse actions that brought their downfall.</p><p>That was one common religious event that he never discussed with Kyriakos. Most he knew was that while Muslims didn’t believe Lut had drunkenly bed both his daughters, they maintained that his people deserved their fate. He couldn’t risk letting him suspect anything, from either his morbid fascination with the tale or his fixation on whether it was merely sodomy, or true affronts to nature such as rape and bestiality that deserved the destruction.</p><p>After all, the Greeks were infamous for their men laying with one another, and their civilization lasted for eons, if it were truly so unforgivable then surely God would have intervened…</p><p>“Mind refreshing things for me? It’s hard to keep my memories in order when I have to make so much space for arithmetic, foreign tongues, names and other world-related details.”</p><p>“I guess you’re right, I myself have a hard time remembering so many things. I can’t tell what I did or didn’t disclose in our last few letters,” Kyriakos said. “My point was, you relayed to me what your teacher thought of heretics within your faith and I told you what my people thought of our own heretics, the Catholics. In most cases, people seem to view traitors to the faith as worse than those who never believed to begin with.”</p><p>Discomfort wore on his shoulders. “You have a point, apostasy and conversion is punishable by death. Is it the same for you?”</p><p>“You can get killed yes, at the very least you will be excommunicated, and no one, not even your own mother, will speak to you ever again. You’re as good as dead.”</p><p>“Why is it any of our business who believes what? For the life of me I could never understand that, we all believe in the same God in the end.”</p><p>“Do we, do we really?” Kyriakos said teasingly.</p><p>Yusuf resisted rolling his eyes. “Excuse us if we have a hard time grasping what you lot mean by him being both God and the Son of God at the same time.”</p><p>“I’ve explained this to you before! Many times!”</p><p>“And it never makes any sense! The Greeks didn’t say that Alexander the Macedonian was both Zeus and the Son of Zeus at the same time!”</p><p>“Because Alexander was son of Philip, because Zeus doesn’t exist.”</p><p>“Who knows.”</p><p>Kyriakos raised a brow at him. “You said you weren’t feeling heretical.”</p><p>“I said ‘who knows’ not ‘I know for a fact’, that’s when it’s heresy.”</p><p>“We do know for a fact that God is the One True God and Jesus is his—”</p><p>“Kyrios, I didn’t come here for a theological debate, I came to bid you goodbye and to know your feelings on your Brothers in Faith.”</p><p>Kyriakos spat on the street. “Don’t insult me, they’re no more my brothers than the Sunni are yours. That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier, I am not pleased with what the Latin Church has imposed on us, and that they are likely less fond of me than they are of you.”</p><p>“You think they won’t ‘liberate’ you and others from our presence?”</p><p>“Sure, after they force us to convert to their church, depose our own pope and bow down to theirs.”</p><p>The mood had soured significantly. He should have known</p><p>To diffuse the situation, Yusuf decided to reroute to their earlier light-hearted argument. “You know what, perhaps I do want a theoretical debate, help me get inside the minds of the Latins I’m going to be up against.”</p><p>The corners of Kyriakos’s mouth turned up, though the stress and sadness remained in his eyes. “Want me to teach you some our prayers, or are your own enough?”</p><p>“Where I’m going, I doubt I’ll have time to maintain doing five of them every day.”</p><p>If he was being honest, he wasn’t the most consistent with his religious rituals. Aside from necessities such as the hygiene expected of <em>wudu</em> and abstaining from pork, he had three out of five of the pillars of his faith, fasting during Ramadan, donating a part of his salary to charity and professing his faith in God’s unique existence, and the legitimacy of his messenger…though that he had problems with as of late. His prayer schedule was shoddy, as he tended to work into the late hours of the morning, barely pulling through to manage to first prayer of the day, sometimes missing the next three.</p><p>That and he had inherited his father’s tase for wine, something that was forbidden but few in his social circle abstained from. As devout as many claimed to be, judging others with no sense of irony, few actually followed up on what was demanded of them. Many drank, consorted with prostitutes, beat their wives, weren’t charitable, sired bastards, or were even good people. Plenty teetered the line between unsavory and evil, and yet, because they maintained their prayers, that made them better than him how?</p><p>That, along with the existence of differing faiths and the sects within them, was among the things that made him question his teachings. A man could a rape a girl, then ‘honor’ her by marrying her, and paying <em>mahr</em> to her father like she were a sheep he killed and paid the price for, and that made him a better man than Yusuf and his aching desire to be more than Kyriakos’ friend.</p><p>Though he might not have to grapple with this for long. Once Yusuf fell on the battle field, defending the people of Jerusalem from the Frankish invaders, he would be set free from the restrictions and requirements. In paradise one could indulge in all that was forbidden in life, the rivers of wine were what preoccupied his young mind. His friends and cousins were more into the <em>hour</em>, up to seventy-two concubines gifted to them.</p><p>As unsettling as the thought was to him, that you could be gifted a person with no choice or possibly a mind of their own, it was no different than slavery. Despite that thought, and the debate on whether the <em>hour</em> were purely female or the term was gender neutral, implying beautiful men, there was some part of it that always fascinated him, even as a child. Now he knew why.</p><p>Whenever he entertained the gods of their heathen ancestors, he fixated on certain stories that resonated with him on a subconscious level. Their gods also reportedly dallied with mortal men as well as women. At least that’s what the tales in the Greek texts Kyriakos and he poured over implied. The close and tragic friendships of the sun god Apollo and his prince Hyacinth, and the warriors Achilles and Patroclus in Homer’s sprawling epic of the War of Troy. Wherever Troy was.</p><p>That brought him back to the one indulgence he could seek in paradise, some verses mentioned that they would drink wine from beautiful youths that acted as their cupbearers. He didn’t want that in particular, he just bristled at the idea that to be in this world was to live a life of deprivation, just to be allowed the indulgence in death.</p><p>He would just like to know what it was like, to freely love, without fear of suffering social suicide or divine wrath. And to be loved back by who he desired.</p><p>Fingers snapped before his eyes. “I thought you said you wanted to see me. If I had known you wanted to make eyes at the horizon I wouldn’t have bothered coming this early.”</p><p>The flush at his ears spread to his face. It was a good thing he had his hair unbound and his beard thick, covering as much of his face as possible. “Can you blame me?”</p><p>Kyriakos looked ahead, letting out a wistful sigh. “No, I can’t. It is a wondrous view, the sun appearing to rise from the depths, lighting up the world, changing the color of the sky. It never gets old.”</p><p>“No, it doesn’t.” Yusuf agreed, trying to keep the yearning from his voice as he snuck a good long look at his friend. “So, about helping me understand the enemy. Remind me again what even is a ‘Holy Spirit’.”</p><p>“Yusuf, I swear if you don’t stop I will say some things about your prophet in return that you won’t appreciate, because there is a lot to criticize that man for.”</p><p>Yusuf knew that quite well, as even the slightest questions about how the Messenger was the opposite of blessed behavior got him backhanded on the mouth by his mother.</p><p>“I’m just saying, for all you know the term ‘Son of God’ could be a poetic term, like how God is our creator, therefore our father, and him bestowing Lady Maryam with a miraculous pregnancy makes them in a sense the father of Issa.”</p><p>Kyriakos pinched the crease between his brows, closing his eyes as he sighed. “Sure, let’s go with that.”</p><p>“I’m just trying to make sense of things, I’m not singling out what Christians believe, I keep trying to make heads or tails of a lot of what’s asked of me and how it, instinctively isn’t just or right but…” He shook his head. “None of this makes any sense.”</p><p>The sun was higher up now and others had grouped around them, ready to embark on their duty to defend the Holy Land alongside him. He wondered if any of them were as conflicted about their duty as he was or if they were heading straight for martyr-hood, to die a righteous death and receive their rewards, to go from swimming in the blood of invaders to the rivers of milk, wine and honey.</p><p>A river of honey, yet another thing that made no sense.</p><p>“It probably doesn’t make sense to the Franks themselves, they are just doing what their Pope asked of them, and out in search of whatever he promised them.”</p><p>“What? What do you get in heaven if you die a martyr?”</p><p>“Depends on who you ask. But a Maltese man whose family attends my church tells me that he has relatives in Italy, and that their Pope promised them that their souls would be cleansed of all sin or something like that.”</p><p>“If—if we should fail, and the Franks turn their sights on our land, I want you to leave,” he breathed hurriedly. “You could go to Malta, pretend you were always there. You already speak Greek!”</p><p>His heart was pounding hard in his chest as he began to envision the worst result, that he and all other Fatimid soldiers would fall, the caliphate would crumble, and Egypt would be annexed by Rome once again. And like they had discussed, the Latin Church would not be as tolerant of Copts and other Orthodox Christians as the Fatimids had been of Sunnis and all sects of Christianity that preceded their arrival.</p><p>They’d kill the Pope of Alexandria first thing no doubt.</p><p>“Yusuf, I can’t leave, not yet. My life is here, my job, my community, my church, my family and my wife—”</p><p>Yusuf’s heart stopped, and his last gulp of air quickly dissipated, making it hard for him to breathe.</p><p>Wife. That’s what he had forgotten to include in their last letters…</p><p>“You’re married?”</p><p>“I…not yet. We’re set to marry within the next week.” He paused, slapping his forehead. “I didn’t tell you about that, did I?”</p><p>“No, you haven’t.” He said through tight lips, tried so hard not to react.</p><p>He didn’t know why it surprised him. Most men his age did not remain unmarried, as that courted the worst of rumors, either that he had a taste for whores or boys. Yusuf may gaze at the broad backs of men and their sharp profiles with miserable desire, but he wasn’t a pederast. He despised men that married little girls, and he had enough hate in his heart for those that took advantage of little boys as well.</p><p>“Her name is Katrina, she is the daughter of a co-worker, I would have liked you to meet her, and be at our wedding but…” Kyriakos looked ahead, the ships were close to docking.</p><p>Yusuf forced a smile on his face. “I may miss your wedding, but pray I don’t miss your firstborn. I’ll bring him the sword of a Frank.”</p><p>“I thought you were going to say you would bring us his head.”</p><p>Yusuf laughed. “What? And prove that I’m just as barbaric as they claim I am?”</p><p>“As if you could, you have a softer heart and a more compassionate soul than anyone I know. It’s a wonder you eat the meat you have slaughtered in your feasts.”</p><p>“It’s a good thing cats and dogs aren’t halal then, because I’d hate to kill or eat them.”</p><p>Kyriakos laughed and approached, Yusuf tried not to swallow air as he was pulled into a hug. As he registered the gesture, warmth spread across his whole body, and he wrapped his own arms around his friend, letting himself take the one chance he could to rest his head on his shoulder and be held.</p><p>This could be the last time he touched another man in peace. It would be all fueled by rage and hatred from here on out.</p><p>“Try to return in one piece, will you?” Kyriakos whispered. “I already buried my parents and my brother, I’d hate to lose you too.”</p><p>Overwhelmed with sadness, Yusuf tightened the hug with one full-body squeeze before stepping back to take one last look at his friend, trying to commit his face to memory.</p><p>Kyriakos was not a handsome man, but his was a face that he would forever associate with love, even if it wasn’t the kind of love he needed.</p><p>Stepping back as the men around them headed down to the beach, he leaned in and pressed quick, parting kisses on Kyriakos’ cheeks. “I will see you again, whether in this life or the next.”</p><p>“Pray that it will be both.”</p><p>Separating himself before he tried to kiss him again, this time on the mouth, Yusuf descended with the rest of his new comrades and embarked on the nearest ship. Once on deck, he went to the far back and sought out Kyriakos, who was a silhouette overlooking the sea.</p><p>He raised an arm and waved, and as the ship pulled out of the harbor and the further he got from land, the further the feeling of dread sank within him.</p><p>As the sun soared high above them, turning the summer sea into a green worthy of his love’s eyes, he wondered if he’d ever see the water or eyes that invoke its beauty ever again.</p><p>That feeling was validated not long after they arrived in Jerusalem. They were there for a handful of days, engaging with the people there, setting up posts and discussing battle tactics and what to do in the even of all the what-ifs when the Franks made themselves known.</p><p>It all erupted into chaos before he could fully grasp what was going on. At some points he couldn’t even tell who was who, as some of the Crusaders didn’t wear a uniform too different from their own. The only thing that helped differentiate them was the precise make of their swords, but as a close call with a compatriot called Bassem revealed, that that wasn’t reliable either. Bassem had lost his scimitar and picked up the longsword of a fallen Frank who didn’t look too different from themselves.</p><p>That was another problem, the invaders weren’t just from the Frankish lands but there were Byzantines in the mix as well as Italians in their midst. A lot of which had black hair, coarse beards and skin that ranged in all shades of olive from being on par with the Levantines native to Jerusalem to a sun-darkened olive-tone similar to Yusuf’s own skin.</p><p>It was a bloodbath of inconceivable proportions, a cacophony of clashing metal, agonized screams, distressed horses and thudding bodies. Blood of natives, invaders and his comrades filled the sun-baked streets, caking the sand and dust into red mud.</p><p>All the men he’d befriended on the ship were on the ground or out of sight, presumably dead, and if he didn’t move out of the throng of screaming and stabbing, he would be next.</p><p>A Frank advanced on him, swinging a gleaming longsword and yelling a battle cry. Yusuf raising his own sword just in time to block the blade and took a dagger out of his belt, sticking it right between his attacker’s ribs.</p><p>His tired arm gave out just in time, as the Frank slid off both his blades and sank to his knees, blood spreading on his tunic. He looked up at Yusuf, mouth bloodied, and eyes visible through the gaps of his helmet.</p><p>For a moment that seemed to flow for an eternity, he was arrested by the intense stare of the enemy at his feet, his large, round eyes with a pure, clear green unlike any he’d ever seen on man or beast, like he had the whole sea in the basins of his eyes.</p><p>The moment passed and he was tugged back into the bedlam of the present as the man fell into a lifeless sprawl, eyes glassy as though they were made of polished emerald.</p><p>He’d killed dozens of men in who knew how many days, but none had affected him this gravely and he didn’t even know why. It wasn’t as if the man shared a face with a friend or a relative, but he resonated him as if he knew him.</p><p>Whatever shaken pensive mood he had slipped into couldn’t last as he soon had to fend off another attack and soon found himself battling two men, running himself ragged with his arms aching and legs fighting to keep him upright.</p><p>In a stroke of luck, one of the men got impatient and knocked the other aside to charge at him, screaming<em> ‘God Wills It!’</em> in Latin of all things, and Yusuf stepped aside and jammed his dagger in his chest before advancing on the second with his sword, a swift yet risky swing aimed not at the opposing blade but at the man’s throat. The slim cut burst with bright red watery blood at the seams.</p><p>It was a sickening sight that threatening to upturn his stomach, which had nothing but water and some bread.</p><p>The battle around him had quieted down, a retreat of some sort had commenced but he couldn’t tell which side had initiated and what the results were, all he saw as he followed the trail of his comrades were masses of butchered bodies, soldiers of both faiths, and the native dwellers of the city.</p><p>It seemed that they hadn’t done them much good. So much for liberation.</p><p>The exhaustion was deep-set in his bones, the sun’s rays were nesting in his dusty, greasy hair, heating his head to a feverish degree, and he could now feel the bruises along his sides and arms that he had sustained from blocking attacks. It was a wonder he hadn’t gotten stabbed.</p><p>He was dragging his feet between the alleyway in the abandoned settlement he heard movement behind him.</p><p>Sluggish, he turned too slow and before he could register the figure shooting towards him, he felt the sharp burn of a blade cutting his skin then the splitting force of it running him through.</p><p>Inconceivable pain spread from his throbbing mid-section as hot blood gushed out of him, making him feel weak and faint. All he could do as he gasped and twitched through the agony was grip the hands of the man stabbing him, but he had no force left in him.</p><p>He fell back, sliding off the longsword, knees hitting the pavement as the weak feeling gripped him in its ceaseless embrace.</p><p>The edges of his vision darkened until they framed his killer, and with the last threads of coherency, he saw his face, his eyes.</p><p>The green eyes of the Frank he’d killed, whose gaze had stared into his soul.</p><p>How? How was he still alive?</p><p>As he sank into oblivion, the last thing he saw were those eyes, beautiful and brimming with hatred.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yusuf rises from the dead and contemplates all he knows and what he is. After he starts dreaming of him, he tracks down Nicolò and tries to get some answers.</p><p>They may have killed each other a few times before actually talking.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What felt like a minute later, Yusuf awoke with a gasp that inhaled dust into his dry throat. He coughed roughly, rolling onto his side on the street.</p><p>It was sundown, and few lingered around him.</p><p>He had died, killed by a ghost.</p><p>But this wasn’t paradise. There were no luxurious palaces overlooking improbable rivers with gorgeous men and women lavishing attention on him and his fallen compatriots.</p><p>But he was certain he had died, he knew it. He felt the icy hand of death clench his heart in its firm grasp and not let go, he knew the stab of the Frank’s longsword was lethal.</p><p>At that thought, he snapped upright, patting around his chest. The tunic was stained with dry blood but the source of it was nowhere to be found. No matter how hard he inhaled or jabbed his own flesh, there was no sign of a wound, or any bruises or aches for that matter.</p><p>In fact, he felt great.</p><p>What was going on? How was this possible?</p><p>Standing and retrieving his sword, he wandered to the outskirts of the city in a fugue, unable to grasp just what had happened.</p><p>Once he arrived at a place where the struggle continued, he saw <em>him</em>. The Frank with the arresting gaze, who he had killed and who had killed him in return.</p><p>He’d spent his whole life trying to make sense of himself and his surroundings, and now it seemed so small in comparison than to both of them somehow avoiding what was a killing blow to every other man here.</p><p>Yusuf tried to think of every possible answer, from hallucinating from dehydration to that he had merely collapsed and dreamed the whole thing up.</p><p>Perhaps some people were harder to kill than others. It was either that or God, or whatever higher power truly set the universe in motion, had sponsored his return. In that case, why? Why not every other man here thinking he was fighting in His name?</p><p>Why that Frank and Yusuf alone?</p><p>This whirlpool of confusion was not going to help anyone, let alone him. There was one way to test what had truly happened and it was to find that Frank and kill him again.</p><p>He spotted him a few feet away, whaling on another man with a fierce brutality that made Yusuf pause. He cut his opponent down hard and fast then moved on to the next, helping one of his own people out of a tight spot with an almost admirable fearlessness.</p><p>Or, it would have been admirable if he wasn’t killing Yusuf’s side of the conflict.</p><p>A rebuttal knocked the Frank’s helmet off his head, unveiling a hood of chainmail and a strong profile, with a firm brow and an aquiline nose. Unfazed, he fought with the unyielding confidence of someone who didn’t fear death, and perhaps he didn’t need to…</p><p>Getting back to his senses, Yusuf readied his sword and charged, aiming for the bastard’s arm.</p><p>He managed to deliver a sharp blow with, not his sword, but surprise, giving the Fatimid soldier who was struggling against the Frank a chance to stab at the Frank’s chest. The man stumbled back, gurgling on his own blood and Yusuf saw his face up close.</p><p>He looked like those old Roman sculptures he’d seen in Alexandria, the busts of men long dead and kept as prized decorations in the houses of the rich, relics of a time before either of their religions existed or held such sway for so many countries, prompting a holy war such as this.</p><p>Before he could get lost in his eyes again, he swung the sword at his face, not even bothering to see how it landed.</p><p>One indulgence he’d allow himself was to not see that face disfigured.</p><p>Turning, he left, throwing himself into the fight before he could linger too long on that one Frank and why he bewitched him.</p><p>It wasn’t long until he felt a spine-cleaving stab in his back and he hit the scalding street again, his vision flickering like a dying flame to the rhythm of war.</p><p>He awoke again not long after, pain a faint echo like he had merely slept sideways on a chair and had a handle digging in his back. Standing, disoriented, he found the numbers had shifted again, and it was still unclear who was winning or if this disaster was winnable to begin with.</p><p>Checking behind him, he was only half-surprised when he found that the Frank was missing from where he had left him.</p><p>As he waded through the city, he’d stopped by a shop that bravely remained open, the old woman offering ladles of water to soldiers. From between thanking her profusely and drinking his fill as well as washing his grimy face, he’d learned that over a week had passed since his forces arrived to the city. That meant both his ‘deaths’ had lasted a night’s sleep.</p><p>He wished he had some semblance of an idea of what was going on, but he didn’t have the time, whether it was Allah, Jesus, Zeus, the fates, or black magic making him the flesh-puppet of some depraved sorcerer, he had lived to fight another day, and that’s what he would do.</p><p>Some small, treacherous part of him hoped he’d cross paths with the bewitching Frank again, to see his face in a clearer light. A foolish part of him wondered what those eyes were like when they weren’t radiating pure hatred and bloodlust.</p>
<hr/><p>Over the next two weeks, Yusuf was stabbed, bludgeoned, pushed off a roof, shot through the head and shoulder, trampled by a horse and given poisoned water.</p><p>Not one attempt took. He’d hit the ground, wondering if this was the time he saw paradise and awaken to a day worse than the one before.</p><p>He’d also dreamed of the Frank every night, saw his bloodstained face, watched him fight not just Yusuf’s side but his own people, and look absolutely miserable or in the throes of maddening panic over his resurrections.</p><p>Yusuf was starting to wonder if there was such a thing as the afterlife and if this might be it, an eternity of repeating the same day in different ways.</p><p>It sounded more like hell than anything. Closer to the hell a Jewish client of his father had described, not precisely a place but a state of existence, and not the fiery nightmare he’d been terrorized with since infancy. That, or the concept of Punishment of the Grave was real, and he was dead and rotting, trapped in his body, living out one death after the next until Judgment Day. If that were the case than ahadith had more weight to their claims than he would have liked.</p><p>Or this was it, the Day of Resurrection was here, ending the world, because that was the only precedent for the dead rising. But it was just him, and no other promised disasters emerging, no Messih al-Dajjal impersonating Jesus, no Gog and Magog, and no angels torturing him in his grave for being a sinner. It was a battle like any other, and he was the odd one out.</p><p>Or this was hell. It could be any of the above, but none fit this circumstance, which still his teachings wrong and senseless. Truth be told, he always found them ridiculous but a part of him still feared every bit, a leech feeding off his doubt and wonderings of ‘what if?’.</p><p>Last he heard about the state of the war was that two Christian commanders were squabbling with one another, putting their own cause at risk, which made him ask just what was their mission here? He’d yet to get a clear answer on why they were doing this.</p><p>The city appeared to be in their hands for now, leaving him mostly safe and positioned atop the walls with the last of the men he’d befriended on the trip here. Sami was nineteen and fourth of five sons, deemed expendable by his father, and it weighed on him harder with each day.</p><p>“I think he hopes I die here,” Sami mumbled, sharpening his dagger. “One less mouth to feed, one less boy to find a job and a wife for.”</p><p>Normally, Yusuf would offer a comforting denial, tell him that he was loved and awaited back home, but as the war dragged on his hope had faded like a painting left out in the sun. He’d eavesdropped on conversations from the Italians, he barely understood them but knew enough Latin to parse their complaints, that they were sacrifices, sent to fight a war they didn’t ask for or understand. There was also something about a traitorous father commanding from France.</p><p>Though he supposed <em>papa</em> here didn’t mean their father but their pope.</p><p>It softened his heart towards them somewhat, plenty of these men were like Sami, from poor homes with parents that couldn’t care for them or ways to advance in life, promised some kind of reward in this life or the next and sent off to kill and be killed on the whims of their lords, princes and pope.</p><p>He thought of the green-eyed Frank, what was his story? Why was he here? Was he even still alive? Did his dreams of him mean anything, or was it fueled by Yusuf’s obsession with him?</p><p>Discussion around him circulated, debating whether the Franks were here on the Byzantine’s payroll, acting as mercenaries for them. There were rumors going around that the Byzantine emperor asked the pope for help fighting the Seljuks, but why send them here then?</p><p>None of this made any sense, not anything any religion decreed, not this war, not his inability to heal from death, or how enamored he was with that Frank—</p><p>Him. Before, Yusuf was perfectly mortal, getting struck down with fevers, spraining fingers, attaining bruises and cuts like anyone else. Ever since he’d killed that Frank and been killed in return something had changed.</p><p>Perhaps the Frank wasn’t a man, but some kind of magical entity operating beyond the limitations of man. He could be a jinni or a sorcerer or something. Who knew at this point, perhaps Son of God and sons of gods like Heracles, Achilles and Alexander the Macedonian and his ancestors the pharaohs were real and that man was one.</p><p>There was one way to find out. He had to track him down and ask him.</p><p>Ignoring Sami’s calls of “Where are you going?” and his commanding officer’s shouts, Yusuf departed his post and headed down and out towards where the Franks were camped. He anticipated dying at least twice in his trip, but he would take as many knives as he needed to find him.</p><p>But as the sun rose they were met with a surprise attack from the crusaders.</p><p>There was not enough of the Fatimid army left to fight back.</p><p>Around the twentieth time he’d died, Yusuf dreamed of the green-eyed Frank more clearly.</p><p>It was a dream so intense, so life-like that he had to wonder if he had finally departed the Earth and this was them reuniting in death.</p><p>But he awoke to the Fatimids surrendering, begging for their lives as others were slaughtered.</p><p>This was a hopeless cause, and there was nothing he alone could do but take down whoever stood in his way.</p><p>He tore through the city, evading capture, trying to get an idea of what they were to do now.</p><p>Then he found him.</p><p>His hair was a light brown, barely brushing his shoulders in straight, wispy locks, and it framed his intense face, a cross between unearthly beauty and sharp, unnerving intensity in the firm lines of his wide, slim mouth and the heavy-lidded stare of his protruding eyes.</p><p>He tried speaking to him but the Frank attacked and he had to choice but to raise his sword. In between the clashing of metal, Yusuf yelled at him in Greek and mangled Latin, hoping he’d know and respond to either, but the fight was ceaseless and he had to choice but to go in for the kill.</p><p>It went on for he didn’t know how long, single-minded and furious. Yusuf would kill him, and the Frank would rise back up, faster and angrier, and kill him in turn, and truth be told, Yusuf was taking his anger out on him. He was despairing the surrender and slaughter of his side, and he couldn’t kill them all, but he could kill this one enough times to amount to the deaths of the rest.</p><p>Somehow, they ended up stabbing each other around the same time.</p><p>They collapsed and bled out on the unforgiving earth while the world continued spiraling out of control around them, he watched his rival’s vacant stare as he was reclaimed by the darkness yet again.</p><p>When he awoke, he was not in the battle, but in a tent, his arms bound behind his back, and sitting in the corner, kneeling what looked like prayer, was the Frank.</p><p>Prayer was something he saw no more use for after he died for the second time. God would not answer him, never would. Yusuf’s mere existence as something unkillable disputed His existence as the only eternal thing in the world, where men’s lives were fleeting and their souls immediately left their bodies to either paradise or damnation.</p><p>But there was nothing. Over twenty times, nothing. He’d heard stories about people being resurrected, but the miracles performed Jesus, accounted in both Islam and Christianity, were just that. Miracles. And they happened once, and with the goal of convincing nonbelievers that he had God’s might on his side.</p><p>Unless Yusuf and the Frank were dual prophets here to preach a new addition to the faiths held by the People of the Book, which was as likely as the angel Gabriel descending to end the war for them, then their own existence negated His own.</p><p>As if he had any more reasons to feel lost and depressed, it seemed that his side well and truly lost and Ascalon and Jerusalem had fallen to the Crusaders.</p><p>He cleared his throat. “Are you going to talk to me now?”</p><p>The Frank paused his prayers and looked at him. The earlier intense posture and gaze was gone and now he appeared softer, calmer.</p><p>Tired.</p><p>He eyed Yusuf suspiciously before crawling to sit by him. He said something in his language, a hurried flow of soft consonants and packed with sounds that were common enough in the Latin he knew, but not quite.</p><p>“Who are you, please tell me,” he said in Greek.</p><p>The man’s brows nearly met his hairline. He wasn’t expecting this it seemed.</p><p>He put a hand over his heart and said, “Nicolò.”</p><p>
  <em>Nicolò.</em>
</p><p>As dire as this situation was, he couldn’t help smiling at him, irrationally pleased to finally put a name to that face, and to have those eyes aiming no negative feelings towards him, just curiosity.</p><p>“Yusuf.” He bowed his head. “Mind untying me?”</p><p>“If I do that you’ll slit my throat.”</p><p>“You’re the one who attacked me when I came to speak!”</p><p>“How was I to know that? Last I saw you, you killed me!”</p><p>“You killed me before that.”</p><p>“You killed me first and damned me!” Anger returned to Nicolò's eyes. “What did you do to me? Why do I keep rising from the dead? Did you curse me?”</p><p>“If I could curse you I’d make sure you never got back up or killed your own comrades, not protect you from death.” Yusuf was too tired to be angry. “I came here to find you, to see if you knew anything because, as far as I can tell, we’re the only ones like this.”</p><p>Nicolò nodded. “We are. Some of the men I fought alongside saw me die then return and they believed I was possessed.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And they killed me.”</p><p>Like in his dreams, he had seen Nicolò be attacked by his own. “What did you do when you woke up?”</p><p>“I would have killed them if they were still alive, the cowards.”</p><p>Nicolò's Greek was not the kind he and Kyriakos had spoken with each other. It sounded too formal, almost archaic. Liturgical no doubt, something he learned from whatever religious texts he thumbed through.</p><p>Which reminded him. “Do you think we’re like this for a purpose?”</p><p>Nicolò snorted, settling back on his heels. “What purpose?”</p><p>“You’re a Catholic, aren’t you? Don’t you people have saints that perform miracles like this constantly? Maybe we’re here to, I don’t know, impart wisdom?”</p><p>Nicolò laughed tiredly. “That is not how that works, and you would be the last God would choose to imbue with Grace.” He avoided Yusuf’s eyes. “And I am not saintly by any means.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>He opened his mouth, flushed a dazzling shade of pink, then closed it again.</p><p>“If you’re not going to tell me what you brought me here for, then at least let me go. I promise I won’t kill you again, because what’s the point?”</p><p>Nicolò ran a hand down his face, exasperated. “I don’t know why I brought you here I just…I’m so tired of dying, but waking again, unharmed, like nothing happened and losing more and more faith in my knowledge of God and this war. I’m tired of being unable to say this to anyone without risking accusations of witchcraft or possession. I want to talk to someone.” He sighed heavily. “I always have, but I can’t. Can’t tell them or God what I really want to say, and now this impossible occurrence that has me coming back as I was before, like a mushroom plucked from the earth one day and being replaced the next day, as if it had never left.”</p><p>“Interesting metaphor, not one I would use.”</p><p>He peeked at Yusuf through his fingers, irritated. “Why not? Fungus grows on what’s dead.”</p><p>“Good point, but if I were to symbolize our predicament I’d use a nicer comparison.”</p><p>“Like what? How would you describe us nicely, please, I could use something to anchor my sanity.”</p><p>That threw him off. Usually when he objected on phrasing or manner of speech, he was ignored, told he was too particular or to go pursue being some rich patron’s poet if he liked apt descriptors so much. All dismissals ranged from friendly ribbing to eye-rolling disdain.</p><p>None had really asked for him to elaborate. “We die, but not for long. We always seem to return to how we were before we sustained any damage, so if I had to compare us to anything it would be our swords.”</p><p>Nicolò folded his legs, propping an elbow on one thigh to rest his chin in his palm as he leaned closer, eyes narrowed with intrigue. “How so?”</p><p>“Your sword can become dirty, can rust, or even break if it is not maintained, and even if it does break it can be re-forged, reinforced, brought back as it was before, just as sharp, just as strong.”</p><p>The sharp corners of his lip-lines curled, pleased. “Are we even sure that we are returned as we were, what if we grow new organs, skin and bones, does that still make it our original state?”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t it?”</p><p>“Well, when we heal from wounds we scar, that is the stitches, the sealing wax, and the forging of our bodies, but in our case we seem to have our aches and killing blows not mended but replaced.”</p><p>“It does seem that way.”</p><p>“If through enough deaths we regrow new insides and skin, healed bones with no semblance of prior breakage, and in my case, eyes, fingers and a nose, if it’s all new, and not what we started with, does that make us the same or new.”</p><p>“That is a very philosophical take I hadn’t even considered.”</p><p>He snorted. “Philosophical, more like questioning my existence.”</p><p>“I was existential long before I died and rose again, so I can tell you that your thoughts are not quite there yet.” Yusuf adjusted his position, his whole body now facing Nicolò's. “What brought on this line of thought?”</p><p>Nicolò snuck glances around them, before refocusing on Yusuf. “I was always intrigued by my ancestors, there is some debate among the clergy whether it is right to learn their stories, of their many gods and mundane miracles, but I could never help it.”</p><p>“I know how you feel.”</p><p>“Have you ever heard of Theseus?”</p><p>The name was familiar, but Yusuf couldn’t count him among the Greeks that fought at Troy, nor those who accompanied the cunning Odysseus on his maddening trip home.</p><p>“I don’t believe I am.”</p><p>“He was a son of the sea god, Neptune, and he had a ship that was preserved throughout the centuries, but as its wood decayed shipbuilders wanted to preserve it, replacing every part that rotted or broke, maintaining the original form but none of the original material. Is it the same ship or a new one at this point?”</p><p>“I…”</p><p>For once in his life, Yusuf’s mind had gone completely blank. He was not used to his mind being stimulated in this manner outside his work, weighing the pros and cons and the strategy of business. His discussions with Kyriakos were always in familiar territory, a path treaded by many before them.</p><p>But now, here, he had no idea if there were ever others like himself and Nicolò. And yet here they were, at the same time at the same place.</p><p>“I suppose it depends on what it represents. Literally, it is a faithful replica of the original, but figuratively, it is the same ship, maintained by the desire to keep it around longer out of reverence or need.”</p><p>“So, one is physical and one is emotional?”</p><p>“Yes, our bodies may change but our minds, our souls seem unaltered.”</p><p>“Or altered for the worse,” Nicolò said bitterly. “I don’t think I can go back to being as I was, unblemished body or not. Not after what I’ve seen, done and been subjected to here.”</p><p>“Neither can I.”</p><p>Softness blossomed within him, the last thing he thought someone like Nicolò would inspire within him. As lethal of a fighter as he was, he was in this quiet moment of discussion, so personable, like they had known each other long ago and reunited on this bleak journey, falling back into a rhythm like no time had passed.</p><p>“Why are you here, really?”</p><p>Nicolò uncovered his blushing face. “The Pope said that whoever fought in God’s name to liberate the Holy Land from the Saracens would have their soul cleansed of all sin for eternity.”</p><p>That didn’t sound like an honest answer. “And what grave sin have you committed, Nicolò?”</p><p>His throat bobbed as he swallowed, looking like he was about to be sick.</p><p>“I’m the last person to judge you, and possibly the only one who could understand you.”</p><p>He glanced up at him shyly. “Don’t be so sure about that.”</p><p>A part of him should hate him and what he stood for, at what his people had brought to his land, but he looked so worn down. And he was truly the only one who could know what Yusuf was going through now, the existential horror of nothing you were taught being true, and of being in a state that defied reason.</p><p>“What? Are you an adulterer? A cannibal? Did you burn down an orphanage? Are you a rapist?”</p><p>“No!” He shouted suddenly, outrage dilating his pupils, reigniting that lethal intensity he had shown Yusuf on the battlefield. “But to most I might as well be,” he said hurriedly, before biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, large eyes brimming with fear and regret. “I—I mean I don’t want…I was a priest, you see.”</p><p>It was Yusuf’s turn to raise his brows high enough to brush his hair. “Of all things, I was not expecting that.”</p><p>Nicolò's mouth briefly quirked up in a humorless smirk. “That’s the problem. I of all people should know what is good and what is abhorrent and yet I can’t stop. I can’t resist the temptation to go against what I know is right, but I’m not even sure why it’s wrong anymore. I do everything I’m told, I cared for my family while my father was away for work, I tried to work for my father, but he didn’t want me, and instead of making some poor girl miserable, I joined the priesthood so I wouldn’t have to marry and spare my family any problems, so I could dedicate myself to God’s work but…”</p><p>He looked away, fists clenched over his knees, and that’s when Yusuf finally understood.</p><p>“You’re a Luti.”</p><p>“A what?”</p><p>“You desire men as you should desire women.”</p><p>Nicolò paled, his fair skin now appearing ashen. He never wanted to see that look on his face ever again. “Yes.”</p><p>He laughed briefly, relief flooding him, making him feel almost delirious as he debated whether this was luck, fate or the most insane coincidence ever to occur.</p><p>He smiled at him brightly. “I told you, I’m the last one to judge you.”</p><p>Nicolò's mouth dropped open. “Are you saying that you’re…like me?”</p><p>“In more ways than one.”</p><p>His stiff outline softened as he began to relax, and Nicolò covered his face with his hands, not quite laughing as puffing out the tension in his body. “Unbelievable.”</p><p>“It is.”</p><p>“This can’t be real, I have to be dead somehow.”</p><p>“You think this mess is the afterlife?”</p><p>“It could be, this could not be real. Just a setting, a stage, for me to live what I hoped to find before I die.”</p><p>Yusuf leaned closer, prompting Nicolò to raise his face, bringing them nose to nose.</p><p>Oh, how he could get lose into his summer-sea eyes.</p><p>“What is it you hoped for?”</p><p>“To be killed in a way my family and Pope would deem honorable. Or, if I’m being indulgent, for my soul to be safe from now til Judgement Day, where I could pursue what I burned for with no guilt, no fear, no disappointment, and find someone who wants what I want.” He raised his hand again, covering his mouth. “Someone who can’t leave me or be taken from me.”</p><p>Yusuf felt his chest fill with anticipation, for what, he wasn’t sure exactly.</p><p>“Please unbind me.”</p><p>Nicolò sagged, nodding grudgingly as he moved back to release Yusuf’s arms. Once they were free, he turned and caught Nicolò, pulling him down against him.</p><p>He was met with a baffled stare but no pushback, the confusion soon melted to fascination, a gleam of Yusuf hoped was reciprocated attraction. “What are you going to do, snap my neck?”</p><p>“No.” Yusuf cupped his neck, then raised his hand up through his hair, goosebumps traveling through him at the anticipation, the exhilaration of finally getting to touch with open intent, unashamed and unafraid as he watch Nicolò tip his head back and close his eyes.</p><p>Yusuf decided to stop thinking and act, bridging the gap between them in a soft kiss.</p><p>When he pulled back, Nicolò's eyes were still closed, his mouth half open, he looked blissful, peaceful, beautiful.</p><p>Slowly, his lashes rose to hold his gaze in a smoldering, hypnotic hold. “Is this fine where you’re from?”</p><p>“No, not even close. You?”</p><p>“You know the answer to that,” Nicolò huffed humorously. “Is this fine? Is this not a sin? Am I exempt from that now that I did what was asked? Or was it all a lie and the Pope’s word is nothing?”</p><p>“He’s definitely conned the lot of you into dying for nothing, but we’re not hurting anyone—not by doing this at least. We’ve killed plenty of others—”</p><p>“And each other,” Nicolò added, making Yusuf’s smile grow with fondness, if one could view being murdered in such a way. “Lots of times.”</p><p>God, what a strange pair they were.</p><p>“I feel like we were meant to meet, it’s too unlikely for it to have been a coincidence.”</p><p>“So, fate?”</p><p>“Fate, the universe, the Holy Spirit whatever that is.”</p><p>Nicolò laughed, truly, with no hint of bitterness or worry and it was the best sound he had ever heard, like a cascade of warm, cleansing water, soothing his inner aches, healing the cuts and bruises he had maintained on his soul for years.</p><p>He barely knew this man and he was ready to write him adoring poetry, praising every angle of his face, comparing him to not just the Moon, but all the stars in the sky. Perhaps they really were meant to meet, be it as players on a stage set in some unaware afterlife, or as unlikely immortals in the current life.</p><p>“Fate wanting us to meet can’t judge us for being too compatible, can it?”</p><p>“I don’t know, I’ve heard no shortage of stories of God wanting us to suffer and feel deprived to become stronger in our faith.”</p><p>“The patience of Ayub,” Yusuf agreed.</p><p>Nicolò frowned at him, mouthing a word until realization dawned on him. “Job, yes. He suffered so many horrible loses but didn’t lose his faith.”</p><p>“It’s very cruel, don’t you think? Why would a loving deity subject us to such agony all to prove something inane to him as belief, why not prove our individual goodness, in ways all can be agreed upon?”</p><p>“You don’t sound devout.”</p><p>“I don’t think I ever was, right now I’m disappointed and resentful but—” He brought their heads together, a sense of calm overtaking him as their foreheads touched. “Regardless, your Pope promised you an untainted soul for eternity, and as far as my teachings are concerned, I am to abide by them until I die, and I have died plenty of times already, so they no-longer apply to me. I can partake in what was forbidden to me now.”</p><p>“We’re free to indulge, and as you said, we’re hurting no one.” Nicolò turned his head, mumbling against his lips “I like how you think,” before sinking into a deeper kiss.</p><p>“I hope you’ll like other things about me.”</p><p>Nicolò withdrew, smirking. “By the looks of things, we’ve got enough time to find out everything about one another.”</p><p>“The question is, what do we do now? See this to the end?”</p><p>“It seems to already be ending, for now at least. Who knows what could happen later.”</p><p>Who knows indeed.</p><p>“Can’t help but be a bit disappointed about the turnout.”</p><p>“You and me both,” Nicolò grumbled. “But if I know anything about these northerners, they will not handle the weather here well. Plenty have already made the move to ride home, considering their participation enough to earn them what they were promised.”</p><p>That was a relief, somewhat. The Franks with their straw-yellow hair and delicate skin would not survive this climate well.</p><p>He scrutinized Nicolò. He knew for a fact that was an Italian name, so that didn’t necessarily make him a Frank per se. “And you? Where are you going from here?”</p><p>Nicolò looked around them, likely listening for movement outside the tent. “Return home, I suppose?”</p><p>“Where is that?”</p><p>“Genova.”</p><p>Yusuf sat back, intrigued. Genova was a while away from here. He and his father didn’t do much dealing with merchants beyond Sicily and the center of the Italian city-states but he had heard of the rest of the maritime republics of the Mediterranean. He was always interested in learning about them, envisioning them to be as similar as Alexandria.</p><p>An intense feeling of homesickness came over him. He wanted to leave, but he didn’t want to part with his new…friend? Not when he’d just found him.</p><p>Found how perfect of a companion he’d be for him. Should he return home, he’d risk survivor comrades who saw him die, an accusation of being a jinni, or even mere demands for an explanation were not what he wanted to handle.</p><p>“Genoa, that’s above the Maghreb, isn’t it?”</p><p>Uncertainty hunched Nicolò's shoulders. “Maghreb?”</p><p>“Northwest of Ifriqya—Africa. Kairouan, you heard of it?”</p><p>“Yes, where the Moors are.” He scrutinized Yusuf. “Are you from there? I thought you were a Saracen.”</p><p>He couldn’t resist cringing at that term. He wasn’t sure how it originated, or what it even meant, but he knew it was an unfavorable term used by Franks to mean Arabs. But it was more irritating than a term that struck anxious fear in his heart like <em>infidel</em> or <em>apostate</em>. Being afraid of being suspected of being either was likely one of the reasons he never fully entertained his disbelief until he knew he was sailing off to die.</p><p>And he had died, just not stayed dead. Ship of Theseus.</p><p>“I’m from Egypt, so not quite a Saracen or a Moor, somewhere between.”</p><p>Fascination brightened his face, Yusuf was never going to get tired of that look it seemed. “Egypt! Cotton!” seemed to be the first thing that came to mind.</p><p>Yusuf couldn’t help laughing. “Yes, cotton, lots of it. Sunflowers too. And beans.”</p><p>“I’d like to see it, someday.”</p><p>He jumped at the opportunity. “Come with me.”</p><p>“Now?”</p><p>“Do you have a reason to stick around here? I assume it’s on your way back to Genoa.”</p><p>Nicolò paused, eyes rolling up to one side in deep thought, likely calculating the distance or envisioning whatever map of the Mediterranean he knew of. “I believe so. Egypt is under Greece?”</p><p>“That it is.”</p><p>Breaking out an exhausted, yet endearing smile, Nicolò nodded. “Yes, I’ll accompany you. A chance for me to actually see the world before I decide what to do back home.”</p><p>“Then I’ll need to take a trip just as long to figure out the same thing.”</p><p>“Come to Genoa with me then.”</p><p>The perfect excuse for him to tour the lands of his neighbors, and for him to not lose sight of his companion. He would be a fool to say no.</p><p>After the sun set, they packed their things, acquired two horses and rode out in the night, heading out of Jerusalem. It was hard for him to hold back from attacking any Frank they encountered, knowing what they were doing to his people. But the cause was lost for now. They’d need reinforcements that would no doubt come soon. He hoped.</p><p>He did not want the risk of Egypt falling into Frankish hands, as he and Kyriakos had discussed. They would not be as tolerant as the Fatimids were of the varying ethnic groups and sects that lived within the land, but he just had to have faith that the desert would protect against the foreign invaders.</p><p>Circumventing the sea, Nicolò and Yusuf went down into Sinai, following trails of those who had escaped Ascalon and Jerusalem, occasionally stopping in settlements and offering to do odd jobs in exchange for food and water. But with interaction, came exposure, and with that was suspicion.</p><p>That was the first time he saw Nicolò be killed by someone that wasn’t him.</p><p>Someone spotted him and either believed him to a spy or a sign that the Franks were heading south after them. As they slept outside under the stars, a group of men attacked them.</p><p>In all the days he spent struggling through the warring masses in the Holy Land, even before he discovered himself to be immortal, not once did he feel this sense of manic fear as he was held down and repeatedly stabbed by the very people he was sent to spare from bloodshed. All he could do was strain to see through the gaps of the arms surrounding him and watch Nicolò's throat being slit.</p><p>He awoke with a gasp sometime later that night, the Moon was smaller, further, but daybreak had yet to stretch its fingertips above the horizon. In the deep chill of the darkness, it reminded him how easy it was to forget the coldness that could grasp the desert once the sunset made way for the moonrise.</p><p>Groaning, he rolled onto all fours, the ghost of the stab wounds persisting like dark bruises along his chest, but once he registered Nicolò's prone form, fear spiked within him, casting his own physical pain aside for a downward slash through his soul.</p><p>He wasn’t breathing, and his throat remained open, caked with dried blood.</p><p>Hurriedly, he crawled over to Nicolò, propping his head and shoulders on his thighs.</p><p>Trying to remember how to breath, he stroked Nicolò's cold face with a shaky hand, the other patting around his body, checking for open wounds, a heartbeat, <em>anything</em>.</p><p>But there was none. He was as still, as cold, and as pale as the marble sculptures Yusuf had favorably likened him to.</p><p>“No…” he rasped, cupping his face. “Wake up. Please.”</p><p>Hopelessness sank ints hooks into him, dragging him down into the turbid depths of despair as his burning eyes poured out the saltwater he felt himself drowning in. He couldn’t have lost him, not like this, not when he just found him and was ready to spend however long their immortality lasted with him.</p><p>But it was just a few hard days before he was ripped from him by strangers in the dark.</p><p>Was this what they had discussed coming to pass? The suffering God inflicted on his followers, as punishment or a test? Were they only immortal apart, only to be separated by death?</p><p>The sky brightened around him as he remained in place, cradling Nicolò's body and begging him to move, to rise, to awaken in every language he knew.</p><p>It was only when he tried cobbling a sentence together in the minimal Latin he knew that Nicolò jerked in his arms with a loud gasp.</p><p>The despair he was drowning in came out flooding out his dry mouth in a near-hysterical laugh of relief, sagging over him in a half-hug as Nicolò reached up to hold his arms, bringing their foreheads together.</p><p>“You scared me. Don’t scare me like that.”</p><p>“How long was I gone?”</p><p>“I don’t know, it could have been minutes or hours. I thought you were gone for good this time.”</p><p>“I suppose parts of me needed longer to be replaced.” He struggled to sit up, so Yusuf pulled him up and against him, his back against his chest. He wondered if Nicolò could feel his hammering heartbeat against his spine.</p><p>
  <em>“Destati.”</em>
</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I awoke to you ordering me to wake up in Latin. In my tongue it’s <em>destati</em>.” He turned in his hold, rolling his head back to capture Yusuf’s gaze. “How do you say it in yours?”</p><p>Still on-edge, Yusuf tried to offer him a comforting smile. <em>“</em>Generally, it’s <em>astyqaz. </em>Colloquially it’s<em> Es-ha</em>.”</p><p>Nicolò tried repeating the second option, looking pained as he tried to recreate the rough airiness of the last syllable, pronouncing it closer to the Greek letter Xi. “Why are there two versions?”</p><p>“The first means ‘get up’, the second is a form of <em>sah el-nom</em>, in a sense to buck sleep’s hold on you. It in turn comes from the word for health, to rise well-rested.”</p><p>“Recovered from the night before.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>“Then the second term fits us quite well,” he groaned as he sat up. “Could you teach me more of your language, in case we come across more hostile people?”</p><p>“Nothing I could teach you within the next few days would be enough to fend off suspicion, especially with your accent.” He brushed Nicolò's bloodied hair off his face, committing every part of his lively face to memory, to be sure that he was in fact alive again. “But I’ll teach you all the same, if you teach me your own in turn.”</p><p>“Deal.”</p><p>After recovering their horses near an oasis, they waded further down through Sinai, closer to the Red Sea. Their trip still had them on edge, but they remained undisturbed as he had insisted on covering Nicolò's head with a scarf, and if anyone they came across asked, they pretended that he was mute so no one would single him out as a foreigner.</p><p>One of their stops was at a monastery Nicolò endearingly referred to as Santa Caterina. Saint Katrine to the Copts, or Aikaterini as the Greeks called her, was a saint of Alexandria, and no doubt the namesake of Kyriakos’ wife. All it did was remind him how badly he wanted to return there, to feel the seaside air on his skin, to see the water glisten under the sun that was cooler than it was here in the arid landscape.</p><p>After filling their waterskins from a well, they reached the shore of the Red Sea and sailed for the Delta, and from there they rode to Cairo. Then, Yusuf felt safe to bare Nicolò's face to the world, as no one would expect to find him on this route. Whenever anyone asked them, Nicolò replied in Greek and Yusuf explained that he was a Byzantine Cretan called Nikolaos.</p><p>With a smoother travel, Yusuf returned to Cairo with Nicolò and he waited to be seen first, to gauge reactions from acquaintances in case anyone alerted his family and customers that he had well and truly died in the battle.</p><p>While giving Nicolò a safe tour of the city, showing him the bazaar with its kiosks that sold everything ranging from spices, cloth, dried legumes and jewelry, he recognized his mother’s voice.</p><p>Turning on the spot with his heart in his throat, he found the source to be a woman covered head to toe in black, talking to his brother, who appeared older, sterner, sharpened by the requirements and responsibilities of the job he’d left him, and knew for certain that he was pronounced dead.</p><p>Setting a hand on his shoulder, Nicolò turned mournful eyes on him. “Is there no way to remedy this? Claim your death was exaggerated?”</p><p>“I doubt it. And I don’t know if I want to.” He took one last hard look at them, aggrieved but not impoverished or at risk without them there and wondered if leaving was the best thing he could have done for Adam’s development, and to not further disappoint his mother when he never married.</p><p>In a sense, the Yusuf that had left them had died and he was a different one, like Theseus’ ship.</p><p>“Let them be, they’ve already mourned me.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't forget to leave a comment! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧</p><p>You can follow me here on <a href="http://lucyclairedelune.tumblr.com"><b>Tumblr</b></a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They head to Malta for the first time and progress in their relationship as they share dreams of two women just like them. In the midst of their search across the Eastern Mediterranean for their 'sisters', they settle in Constantinople as the next Crusade catches up with them...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is sooo long but it covers the time before they meet Andy and Quynh which will be up next!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They didn’t stay long in Cairo, after showing Nicolò the Nile in the center of the city, Yusuf thought to tie up some loose ends while swearing some acquaintances to secrecy, telling them that he was as good as dead, struggling through a festering infection. After consulting on a hard case for a fellow merchant and pocketing the share he was owed in the job, they headed up to Alexandria, the cooling weather of autumn making the trip through the desert easier.</p><p>He gave Nicolò a tour of the Ptolemaic ruins and all that remained of the Greeks and Romans, and took the chance to check on Kyriakos from a distance. Standing near his church on their day of gathering, what Nicolò referred to as <em>Domenica</em>, the Lord’s Day, he called <em>Al-Ahad</em>, the First Day of the week.</p><p>More time had passed than he’d thought, because Kyriakos now had a son. From eavesdropping, he’d heard that the boy’s name was Yusuf.</p><p>He supposed that if anyone asked, they’d believe the boy’s name had a religious significance, but he knew in his heart that that was his namesake, and it pained him that he might be able to be a part of his life. But a normal life was never something he was meant for, even more so now.</p><p>They were walking along the harbor when Nicolò, in a thick accent and uncertain phrasing, asked “Who were they?” in Arabic.</p><p>“A life-long friend, and the family he formed in my absence.” He must have sounded affected, because Nicolò raised his brows at him.</p><p>“His son shared your name.”</p><p>“He did, but most likely think it was chosen to honor a saint.”</p><p>Confusion crossed his face. “I can’t believe I never asked, but what does your name mean?”</p><p>“It’s the name of a prophet, who came to Egypt and explained the Pharoah’s dreams to him, but you’d know it as the stepfather of Jesus.”</p><p>He laughed briefly, pleased. “San Giuseppe.”</p><p>“Sounds like it. My last name can mean either ‘the intelligent’ or ‘the astute one’. I’m guessing my family descends from a tactician or, given our aptitude for business, a shrewd merchant.”</p><p>Nicolò looked impressed, lips curling at their corners.</p><p>In their time together, Nicolò had yet to volunteer information about himself. The most Yusuf could gauge was that, due to his delight at Saint Katrine’s monastery, he had a beloved family member called Caterina.</p><p>“Do you have a last name?”</p><p>He shook his head. “My father was a bastard, his father gave him an education and a job, but not his name. What would my name be in your language?”</p><p>“Depends, I’ve heard it as the Greek version you go by now, and the Arabized version of Nicola.”</p><p>“There are also many Italian men called Nicola.”</p><p>“Were you named after someone in particular? My father, my brother and I were all named after important religious figures—Abramo, Adamo and Giuseppe?” Yusuf guessed, cringing at his own pronunciation. “My father said he chose neutral names important to all three faiths, a testament to his shrewdness now that I think about it.”</p><p>“I’m not sure, but when I first went to train as a priest, my elder noted that my name was that of a great pope—<em>Niccolo Magno</em>, who played a large role in asserting the faith’s power over Christian nations, and how everyone, even kings would answer to him.”</p><p>“So, he set in motion the ability for the Latin Pope to order kings to send their men down to ‘reclaim’ Jerusalem?”</p><p>They had discussed the lies Nicolò and his countrymen were fed to become fodder for the Frankish claim on the Holy Land, but Yusuf tried not to aim his anger at him, he was one man, he was regretful, and he had had no power in any of this. Despite not aiming to pour salt in the wound, Nicolò cringed all the same, ducking his head shamefully.</p><p>“Seems so. Is that what you call it, <em>Al-Quds?</em>” Nicolò sounded out the word slowly. “What does it mean?”</p><p>“Literally, the Holy, but in the sense that it is the Sanctified Land. It’s where the Arabic word for <em>saint</em> comes from as well.”</p><p>“Are there always so many names for one thing in this language?”</p><p>“Unfortunately, yes. But in composing poetry, it solves the issue of repetition, where you can say the same word but in enough variations to appear well-thought-out.”</p><p>Nicolò wrinkled his nose, creasing his eyelids in a frankly adorable expression. “I don’t know, I feel like you choose your words very carefully, so your surname fits.”</p><p>“I’ve had no choice but to. I never could speak openly without risk of irreparable damage.”</p><p>“It’s not just that. When you described places and things to me, you always do in a way that just helps paint a vivid depiction, or just illustrate the steps it takes to make a figurative translation make sense.” Nicolò quickly checked around them before taking his hand. “If we stop and settle soon, I’d like to see what you could write.”</p><p>Flustered, he felt a stifling warmth spread up his throat, tightening it so his voice emerged choked-up. “In which language?”</p><p>Nicolò smirked, an expression he now understood to be easier for his face to manage than a proper smile, or even a grin. He wasn’t as stern as he appeared, at least not with Yusuf he wasn’t. He just emoted on a smaller, subtler level, and he took great joy in learning what each quirk of his mouth and twitch of his brows communicated.</p><p>“I suppose that’s a good excuse to teach me your alphabet.”</p><p>“Deal.”</p><p>From Alexandria they took a ship up to Malta, stopping to rest for a few days in a land no one knew them or had any risk of recognizing them as returning from the war. It seemed the people there had not heard much about it.</p><p>Malta was recently conquered by the Normans, liberating Christian prisoners from Arab rule, and momentarily safe from Byzantine attempts to reclaim it. When questioned of his origins and intentions, Nicolò claimed he was an Italian immigrating to raise the Christian population and that Yusuf was a Copt accompanying him from Egypt.</p><p>The few days turned into weeks as they found a job working as fishermen and were afforded their own lodgings and they suddenly had a whole new life here. One where they awoke in the morning to a wet, windy climate different from Alexandria and Genova, where the dialect wasn’t too hard to pick up but not easy to quickly imitate, where they had gone from a merchant and a priest to fishermen, and occasionally conscripted into odd jobs around the city.</p><p>Due to them venturing out into the humidity and the inescapable saltwater, Nicolò and Yusuf cut their hair, and shortened their beards. At some point Nicolò had decided to remain clean-shaven, saying it made him feel more like himself. Yusuf wondered if Italian priests were required to remain beardless.</p><p>To be honest, he preferred him like this. No part of his face hidden by wispy, dark-blond hair, and he longed to feel how smooth his skin was.</p><p>It was then that their relationship underwent a shift. They hadn’t kissed since they decided to flee Jerusalem, and it was too risky to attempt anything that could be viewed as an unseemly amount of affection while they traveled with others, but now in their own cottage that they returned to at night, Yusuf buzzed with anticipation.</p><p>Nicolò had gone down to the market to barter some of the fish they got for other supplies, and Yusuf remained behind to start a fire in their hearth, stoking the coals and boiling water for the vegetables.</p><p>Tonight he would make a move, to see if it had just been the intensity of their surroundings that urged Nicolò to accept his first kiss, or if he was still open to pursuing a relationship now that they were alone.</p><p>Dropping the poker, Yusuf rose, rubbing sweaty palms on his trousers. How could he prepare for this?</p><p>Neither of them had ever been with either a woman or a man, in any capacity. He didn’t know if he could communicate his intentions without losing his grasp on their common tongue, he’d probably have to resort to awkward literary comparisons.</p><p>To give his hands something to do, and possibly smooth his advances, Yusuf took his time carefully cutting then shaving his beard until his face was smoother than it had been in years and followed it by chopping off most of his hair. It was something he’d been meaning to do for a long time, but never had the peace of mind to attempt it, drastically changing his appearance to go with the complete change of life.</p><p>He felt different, he might as well look it.</p><p>Nicolò returned as the water came to a boil, celery stalks poking out the top of his grocery bag. “Sorry I took so long, it took longer to haggle with the seller but—”</p><p>He stopped, eyes wide, mouth in a thin line of shock and Yusuf’s anxiety shot up to the Moon.</p><p>Sliding the bag off his shoulder, Nicolò approached, shock shifting to ease. “For a second I thought you were someone else.”</p><p>Yusuf stroked his face, offering an awkward grin. “Do I look that different?”</p><p>“Quite, the beard obscured so much of your face. I didn’t know what shape it truly was,” he said quietly, raising hesitant hands. Yusuf leaned into his touch, shuddering as he felt the calloused fingertips on his face, those must have been there before he died, before whatever force keeping them here went into motion.</p><p>There was a slight difference in height between them, emphasized by how close they now were, hot breath on each other’s skin, Nicolò's face encompassing his view, his hands numbing him to all other senses.</p><p>Slowly, he set his hands on Nicolò's hips, angling his face questioningly. “Do you still want to…?”</p><p>“Yes,” Nicolò breathed, hands sliding over his face to cup the back of his head, fingertips rolling the small, coiled locks of his hair. “Oh, so that’s what it feels like,” he said with reverent fascination. “I wondered how it now seems to hold up by itself.”</p><p>Pure fondness melted his worries as he moved his hands up to do the same, comb his fingers through the long, light-brown hair, the color of palm wood. “Yours just lies on your head, do you even remember it’s there?”</p><p>“Of course I do, it gets everywhere if I don’t tie it back.” Nicolò came even closer, so they were nose to nose. “Think I should join you in shortening it?”</p><p>“Not yet, not now.” He curled his fingers, grabbing a soft fistful of his hair to urge them closer into a kiss.</p><p>With the established comfort of their time together and the soothing quiet of privacy, Yusuf was able to lose himself completely in Nicolò, deepening the kiss, adjusting his face to find a sweeter, smoother way to slot their lips together, feeling Nicolò's nose press against his cheek.</p><p>Their hands roamed from faces to shoulders, down backs to grip waists and hips, Yusuf indulged in lingering grabs of Nicolò's thighs and behind, as thicker than his clothes let on, inspiring gasps and surprised moans that urged him to tighten his grip. It was he everything he had yearned for in shameful secrecy throughout his life, a touch he thought he’d never feel as he snuck wistful glances at men that caught his eye and traitorous imagination.</p><p>But here he was, with the one person who could understand him, who wanted him back, and who looked at him like he was something precious worth approaching with caution and handling with delicate care.</p><p>That night they slept in the same bed, Yusuf tucked behind Nicolò, one arm hugging him close to his chest, face pressed against his nape.</p><p>It was the best sleep he had ever had.</p><p>They continued their life on Malta in domestic bliss for about two to three years, it was hard to keep track of time when they appeared to not be aging, their bodies either frozen in time or the sagging skin and weakening bones they were meant to develop were warded off by the steady replacement within their body, like the wood of Theseus’ ship.</p><p>But it was not long until the blissful nights brought strange and concerning dreams, not unlike the ones he had while they were separated in Jerusalem, only this time he dreamed of two women, neither were familiar. One was tall, fierce-looking, with intense green eyes and face worthy of a Roman empress, the other was unlike any he had ever seen, smaller, with pin-straight black hair and a rounded bone structure.</p><p>It was around the tenth time he dreamt of them, battling somewhere green and humid, the tall woman brandishing an axe, that he thought to mention it to Nicolò.</p><p>They were strolling on the beach, playing a teaching game by writing words in their respective languages on the wet sand with sticks, Nicolò would write one word in Latin and Yusuf would add the Arabic translation underneath.</p><p>After trading enough words to form a paragraph, Yusuf said, “I’ve been having these dreams, I can’t explain how but I feel they’re messages.”</p><p>“Messages how? Like your namesake?”</p><p>“My namesake explained the meanings of other people’s dreams, he himself didn’t have them, you should know this, priest,” he chided, writing the word for dreams in the sand, <em>Ahlam</em>.</p><p>“I’m just joking, no need to remind me how much I failed at my position.” Nicolò bumped his shoulder against his. “Tell me. Also, what word is this?”</p><p>“Our current topic. I’ve been dreaming of these two women over and over again.”</p><p>Nicolò paused, not finishing the last strokes of <em>Somni</em>. “One tall, brandishing an axe and one slight and from somewhere in the east?”</p><p>“Yes! You have them too?”</p><p>“Why didn’t you say anything before?”</p><p>“I’d forget about it the second I woke up a lot of the time. What do you think they mean?”</p><p>“I believe they’re like us, immortals who found each other.” Yusuf swallowed, nervous. “I think we need to seek them out.”</p><p>Nicolò looked torn. “When?”</p><p>“Whenever possible. Or did you want to return to Genova first?”</p><p>Since they settled here, Nicolò hadn’t mentioned his homeland once, Yusuf didn’t want to push him, waiting for him to bring up the topic or volunteer information about his life prior to becoming a priest and departing for the Crusades. But he never did.</p><p>“Don’t you miss your family?”</p><p>“The ones worth missing are gone. I don’t need to return to anyone.” He caught Yusuf’s gaze, eyes softened by sadness despite his small smile. “I have you now, and I don’t think I could bear for us to part. So, if you want to go in search of the Greek woman and her companion, then I will come.”</p><p>His heart clenched, reminding him just how much he meant to him. “You would follow me into something this aimless? Who knows how long it would take.”</p><p>“We have eternity,” Nicolò pointed out. “And I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.”</p><p>Throwing caution to the wind, hooked an arm around his waist and pulled him into a kiss. “Assuming they’re more long-lived than us, we can take our time.”</p><p>Except their time in Malta was cut unbearably short when they were helping reel in a net during a sea storm. The weight was too much to bear and Yusuf fell overboard.</p><p>The next thing he knew was wet sand beneath him and Nicolò's anxious face hovering above him. <em>“Sah el-nom,”</em> he greeted him shakily, hair darkened and plastered to his head by the seawater, droplets still gliding down his face. “You scared me. I thought I’d never find you again.”</p><p>The fisherman that employed them alerted them to his presence by shouting his shock. “But he died! He was dead when we pulled him out.”</p><p>There was no decent explanation they could offer besides a miracle, as Yusuf had been underwater too long, and still as the corpse he was for even longer, to be a chance survivor.</p><p>Before the accusations of witchcraft could rise, they took the next trade ship out of Malta and headed for Greece, the only conceivable place they could start looking for the woman with the axe.</p><p>But their plans always managed to get delayed, as weeks turned into months, months into years, years into decades, and soon two more Crusades had come to pass, changing the world as he originally knew it. Egypt was attacked in the Second Crusade and it took all his will to not fling himself across the sea, to go fight, but it wasn’t long after that a Sunni Kurd calling himself Salah-ad-Din came barreling through the Levant, fighting the Crusaders and scooping up the land the Fatimids lost, founding the Ayyubid dynasty.</p><p>Yusuf was not sure if he was happy with that turnout, because either way this effectively meant that the Egypt he knew was gone, and the things he had gone to the First Crusade to prevent would come to pass in a different way. Egypt would become Sunni, and they would not be as nice to the Shi’ites as they were to them and the Christians, and the ethnic minorities within the empire.</p><p>But for the mean time, Salah-ad-Din and his heirs would keep his land out of the hands of the Franks, especially the man they called Lionheart.</p><p>In the mean time, Yusuf needed to think of himself for once, and find a way to the immortal women, wherever they were…</p>
<hr/><p>Travel wasn’t consistent, but they made their way through almost the entirety of Byzantine territory, asking about warrior women and coming up empty, or pointed jokingly to ancient stories about Amazons. They changed their names to Nikolaos and Iosiphos, later simplifying them to Nikos and Sifos. Each move altered their story and they took up various jobs, from acting as farmers on monastery grounds, to travel bodyguards for either important or shady figures, and for a short period Yusuf found himself back utilizing his knowledge in trade and later acting as an accountant for an oligarch.</p><p>Yusuf’s Latin improved and Nicolò's Greek modernized, and through their private time together, tracing words on each other’s backs and chests, and in whatever work they shared, sneaking papers and books to teach one another’s languages, Yusuf found it confusing to keep Latin and Genoese in his head, frequently mixing them up. Nicolò's grasp of Arabic had solidified though some letters still eluded him. He still pronounced the letters خ and ح as the Greek Xi and always pronounced the ع as if he was about to cough up a hairball.</p><p>Yusuf didn’t know if he ever wanted him to sound like a native speaker, his accent was endearing.</p><p>The next few decades were spent wandering until they reached Constantinople.</p><p>If Malta had tempted them to remain forever in its idyllic calm, the structured, multicultural hustle and bustle of Constantinople was making them an offer they could hardly refuse. There society was more organized with all kind of people from not just the empire but the Mediterranean itself going about their lives and jobs, the urban setting offering amenities, opportunities and luxuries they could hardly find anywhere else. It reminded him of a grander, older version of Cairo.</p><p>That wasn’t the best part. There were so many people here and so many varieties that not one ideology could dictate their lives. Sure, the Byzantine Empire was now Eastern Orthodox, born of a schism that had made Nicolò laugh himself to tears when he found out. So much for the Eastern Roman Empire when it was no longer under the Roman Church. But not that many abided by those laws.</p><p>It wasn’t dangerous to be either irreligious or favoring your own sex. Yusuf, now working his way up through the financial sector, regularly met up with a group of self-proclaimed philosophers, poets and intellectuals to discuss everything from all the varying religions they knew of to politics and literature. Nicolò worked as a guard and occasional assassin before being hired to train members of the oligarchy in the ways of the bow and sword, and he managed to befriend a host of couples just like them.</p><p>Their favorites to dine with were Kayvan, a Zoroastrian Persian, and Vartan, an Armenian Christian, who met while working at the emperor’s court. Nicolò later brought Anastasia and Eleni, a pair of former nuns, who, like him, left their pact with God and now worked as household staff for a noble, but still attended and volunteered in their their church.</p><p>One night in the midautumn, they had all four over for dinner. Nicolò was experimenting with a cookbook that had been imported from central Italy alongside Eleni, who handled the meal preparation in her employer’s home, and Yusuf was barred from the kitchen because the last time he tried to help he burnt the pasta dough.</p><p>Instead, they were set around the dining table, taking turns pouring each other wine and eating snacks set for them with yoghurt or cheese dips.</p><p>The topic filtered in and out from current events not just the empire, but beyond it, and of the past. It was very hard for him to hold his tongue when it came to correcting them about certain events he was around for. As far as they were concerned, Nicolò was in his early twenties, and Yusuf was almost thirty, the lack of facial hair they both maintained took several years off their faces.</p><p>“Yusuf, settle a bet for us,” Kayvan said in between laughs, red-faced. “Can current Greeks read their ancient texts? Anastasia claims they can’t.”</p><p>“I’m telling you no one speaks the version in the texts!” Anastasia argued. “Can you read your own epics?”</p><p>“Yes, yes, I can, though I only know of the one my family brought with them,” Kayvan argued. “Yes, some words have fallen out of use, but it’s still recognizable as Persian.”</p><p>“He’s lying,” said Vartan, smiling around his goblet, large, dark eyes glimmering with humor. “He could barely read this Arabic poetry book I found at the bookseller.”</p><p>Kayvan thunked his goblet on the table in frustration, his silky black hair falling over his eyes, having grown too long to remain flattened back without oil but not long enough to join the hair at the back. “I could barely read it because it was in Arabic, not because of the letters, you dolt! We share an alphabet, not a language.”</p><p>“I always wondered what the difference between Arabic and Persian was,” Anastasia hummed, leaning closer. “Are they as different as Latin and Greek?”</p><p>“Thereabouts,” said Yusuf, throwing an arm over the back of her chair. Anastasia was of a similar complexion to him, an Anatolian Greek with black ringlets, small, onyx eyes and a hard-nosed profile, her olive skin somewhere between his tone and Kayvan’s, who had a yellower undertone. She reminded him of his sister Yasmina.</p><p>Yasmina. She had been twelve when he’d last seen her, her hair bound in tight braids, sitting with the other little girls in their building, drilling holes into pearls fished from the Red Sea and stringing them into bracelets and necklaces. He wondered if she’d joined Adam in their father’s business, if she had married, if either of them had children, grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren who were still in Cairo today.</p><p>It was then that he realized that he had lived longer outside of Egypt and alongside Nicolò than he ever had in his homeland with his family.</p><p>Trying to hide his sudden bout of melancholy, he took another gulp of the pomegranate wine Eleni had brought, and set about thinking of anything but his family.</p><p>“My knowledge of Persian is limited, but from what I can tell we share a few words, loan-words that is, not common. I believe our languages evolved separately. Persian has sounds that Arabic doesn’t.”</p><p>“Like?” Anastasia asked. “Is it like that scratchy sound that’s somewhere between an <em>Heh</em> and a Xi?”</p><p>“That, and Arabic doesn’t have either a <em>Puh</em> or a <em>Vuh</em>.”</p><p>“No!” Vartan gasped, intrigued. “How do you handle loan-words then?”</p><p>“Depends on your level of education. I grew up mostly bilingual, so I had no issues, but others tend to nativize foreign words and names.”</p><p>“How so?” Kayvan asked.</p><p>Yusuf glanced at Nicolò in the kitchen, where he could hear him and Eleni squabbling over how long to boil the dough, he insisted it be chewy, and she argued it needed to be as soft as rice. “For example, your founding patriarch of Antioch was Petros, the companion of Jesus. In Arabic we call him Boutros.”</p><p>“So, anything with a Pi becomes a Beta? What about Vs?” Vartan asked.</p><p>“They become Phis.”</p><p>Anastasia threw her head back and howled. “Fartan.”</p><p>Vartan reached over and shoved her lightly, almost dipping his sleeve in the seasoned olive oil. “Don’t! Don’t give Kayvan any ideas!”</p><p>“Too late!” Kayvan laughed. “We’re Fartan and Kayfan now.”</p><p>“What is so funny?” Eleni asked, arriving with plates of boiled dumplings and the layered sheets of dough Nicolò's book called <em>lagana</em>, a semolina dough from Sicily.</p><p>“Things sounds weird in other tongues,” was all Anastasia managed, her giggles trailing off. “I’m too drunk to remember if Latin and Greek have such amusing differences.”</p><p>Eleni set the food before her and took a seat by Anastasia, eyeing her drunkeness with displeasure. “I’m not going to have to carry you home again, am I?”</p><p>“You can sleep here if you’d like,” Nicolò offered, arriving with a silver platter of dessert, grapes and honey-cakes. “Your home is a good walk away, and it has already gotten dark, it’d be better than you heading out alone at this hour.”</p><p>Anastasia reached up and pinched his cheek. “You are such a sweet boy, your mama raised you very well.”</p><p>Nicolò turned a delightful shade of pink and made the same expression he always did when their friends tried to baby him. Anastasia and Eleni were somewhere in their late thirties, and they seemed to treat him as if he were their nephew. If only they knew he was old enough to be their great-grandfather.</p><p>He settled across from Yusuf, the roots of his long hair a tad sweaty from the kitchen’s humidity and heat, and eyes shining. “Speaking of languages, that book is written in a dialect I’m not familiar with, it took a lot to get the gist of the recipes. When did that happen?”</p><p>“Perhaps it’s from Rome? Or some version only spoken by the elite, who knows?”</p><p>“Where did you learn Latin? I’ve heard you speak some but it doesn’t sound like the kind I’ve heard from traders.” Vartan asked, frowning curiously. “What do you even speak in Malta anyway?”</p><p>Nicolò paused, eyes wide with panic. They had maintained the story that Yusuf was of North African stock from the now-Kingdom of Sicily, and that he’d met Nicolò in Malta. The Maltese didn’t quite speak Latin or Arabic for that matter at this point. The demographics were uncertain after the Norman Conquest.</p><p>“So?” Vartan pressed. “For that matter, where did you learn Greek?”</p><p>It was a good thing Yusuf was always so good with his words, any lie elaborate enough and said with enough confidence would appear indisputable. “Our islands did a lot of trade with the Genoese, plenty would stay and attend Nico’s church, he learned a fair bit from dealing with them, didn’t you, <em>habibi?</em>”</p><p>“Yes,” Nicolò nodded. “And the Greek is necessary to learn for anyone Orthodox.”</p><p>He wondered how bitter that claim tasted in his mouth, they’d assumed a variety of identities so far, despite them both being irreligious and Yusuf having no issue passing himself as a Shi’ite, Sunni, Orthodox or Copt, Nicolò always had a difficulty phrasing that he never was part of the Latin Church.</p><p>“And it’s the common language of the Mediterranean,” Yusuf added. “Though I don’t know if Anatolia counts as a part of our sea.”</p><p>“Your sea?” Kayvan teased. “What makes it yours?”</p><p>“<em>Mare nostrum</em> is what the Romans called,” Nicolò said. “<em>Our sea</em>, the great body of water that has seen kingdoms, cultures, empires and great figures rise and fall, which connects so many people through history and trade and has since what must have been the dawn of time.”</p><p>Prior panic had left him, and he reached to set his hand over Yusuf’s, making his heart jump like it was the first time, those beautiful eyes who held the summer-green of their beloved sea’s water in them, and the infinite possibilities it had always held.</p><p>Yusuf turned his hand, sliding his palm against Nicolò's. “It’s what made us meeting possible, neither of us could have crossed each other’s path had our people not known the waves like the backs of their hands.”</p><p>“I imagine if we were landlocked, somewhere in Frankish territory or further into the lands that share little no history, we’d have never met let alone been able to communicate,” said Nicolò. “Imagine, if I were one of those Bulgars the empire keeps having trouble with, or one of your relatives Kayvan.”</p><p>“Persians?”</p><p>“No, the ones in the north, the, uh—” he snapped the fingers of his free hand, frowning adorably as he went deep in thought. He wanted to reach out and smooth the creases in his brow with his thumbs, to trace every dip and curve of his face with his fingertips, try to follow the loving effort of whatever deity molded Nicolò, almost like he was made for him. “The Rus?”</p><p>“The Kievans you mean?” Anastasia laughed. “Any relation, Kayvan?”</p><p>He rolled his eyes at her. “No, my name is that of a planet, I believe theirs comes from their capital. Ahura Mazda knows what language they speak up there.”</p><p>“Chances are, also Greek,” said Eleni. “They converted to Orthodoxy didn’t they?”</p><p>“Could be,” Yusuf agreed, still not taking his eyes off Nicolò. “Aren’t they like the Normans, descendants of those sea-raiders that sail the frozen waters?”</p><p>“That’s what I’ve heard from Lord Stephanos, that they were pagan sailers that harassed the Franks for centuries on end until a king offered them lands and titles to stop raiding them. I suppose some of the people up in Kiev did the same with the ones they got.”</p><p>“Amazing, I keep forgetting that there are people further east than us,” said Vartan. “Or, at least further northeast, we already know of the Persians and the people of the Indus. Have you ever seen an Indian, Kayvan?”</p><p>“I’ve barely seen other Persians seeing as my community fled westward to evade persecution, you know this,” he said bitterly. “But as far as I’m aware, the other Zoroastrians did go south to India to flee the Muslims.”</p><p>Yusuf tried not to emote at that mention. He occasionally forgot that not all Muslims were like the Fatimids he grew up under, and that the Arab conquest of Persia was no more lenient on conversions than the colonizing of North Africa. It was a shame they weren’t following the Fatimid’s method of acceptance. Though that was what reportedly weakened their rule in Egypt, they weren’t scaring the populace into obedience and terrifying the foreigners. The</p><p>That seemed to work for the post-Crusade established ‘Kingdom of Jerusalem’.</p><p>Nicolò must have noticed the dip in his mood, squeezing his hand, murmuring to him in Arabic, <em>“What’s the matter?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Feeling homesick, I suppose.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Would you like to holiday in Alexandria soon?”</em>
</p><p>“Are you talking about Alexander?” Kayvan butted in. “Sorry, I heard the name Iskandar, we use that name as well in Persian.”</p><p>Yusuf huffed out a laugh. “There’s a loan-word I forgot, Alexandros became Al-Iskandar in Arabic, and I suppose they dropped the <em>Al</em>, believing it to mean ‘the’, making it just Iskandar.”</p><p>“I never thought of that!” Kayvan laughed. “That would be a good bicultural name, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Sure, if any of us could have children,” Eleni snorted, helping herself to the dumplings.</p><p>Anastasia gulped down her mouthful of food then faced her partner, hand over her wrist. “Not the usual way, but what if we could foster?”</p><p>Eleni paused her monopoly of the dumplings. “You mean the children we get at the church?”</p><p>“Orphanages are not the best place to grow up, you and I would know. What if we could house some, raise them as our own, before we get too old.”</p><p>Eleni’s blue-grey eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “That would be…I’d like that. I always wanted a girl or two, but when I was given to the church I knew it wasn’t possible, and even after we left, it still isn’t that possible because the idea of laying with a man, even to have a child is just…”</p><p>“That settles it then, we get to be mothers to ones who really need us.”</p><p>Officially overwhelmed and crying, Eleni nodded enthusiastically, bobbing the tears down her face and Anastasia held her with dainty hands and brought her in for a kiss.</p><p>Yusuf almost burst into tears himself, vividly remembering the last time he saw his friend Kyriakos and the son he’d named after him. He’d rarely entertained the fantasy before, but it was one thing to see what you couldn’t have in the hands of others, and another to know the possibility for family existed among people like him.</p><p>He caught Nicolò's eyes, found him watching him with concern once again.</p><p>Vartan, ever the nuisance, tried to ruin the sweet moment by pelting them with grapes. “Of all the things to get emotional over, you hard-heads pick this?”</p><p>Nicolò smacked him upside the head, irritated. “Could you try to be happy for them?”</p><p>“What’s to celebrate? Having someone depend on you for the rest of your good years? Recreating the same bullshit your parents did?” Vartan said defensively. “We were meant to be spared of that responsibility.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Yusuf asked, urging Nicolò to put his striking hand down.</p><p>Kayvan tried to shush his partner but Vartan, tongue loosened with drink, just pointed accusingly at Yusuf and said, “If we were meant to have children we would have been like everyone else, given desires that result in children. But we’re not, we’ll never risk getting or getting anyone pregnant, so we should take that as the blessing it is.”</p><p>It got very quiet, Eleni’s tears of happiness had fallen into quiet sobs, Vartan’s words upsetting her. Anastasia pulled her close and gave him a glare that could melt lead.</p><p>“You’re an asshole,” she spat.</p><p>“I’m an asshole for giving you facts?”</p><p>“Those are not facts, that’s just you ruining our happiness before we had a chance to celebrate,” she said. “I came here tonight aiming to express my desire to be a mother, to share it with Eleni and our friends, and I thought you of all people would understand.”</p><p>“I of all people? I had enough problems with my parents that I’m glad I won’t have to recreate with any children of my own, so, why go through the trouble of raising someone else’s child who will no doubt grow up to resent you?”</p><p>Yusuf suddenly felt very ill, a nausea that reminded him of being on the fishing ships of Malta during a storm, as glimpses of memories resurfaced. Talking with his father as they worked together, arguing with his mother as he and his siblings helped her pick pests out of their rice, teaching Adam the Greek he learned with Kyriakos and mocking his pronunciations, helping Yasmina pick trinkets in the markets of downtown Cairo.</p><p>Were the faces in his memory even real? They didn’t feel quite right, misremembered. There were easy facts he had a hard time grasping, whether Adam and Yasmina shared his hair texture and nose, whether he truly was the spitting image of his uncle Wisam, if his father had gone completely grey before his death.</p><p>What did his mother sound like? She had an accent different from his father’s, coming from Giza, but he couldn’t remember how it differed.</p><p>People had always said that you would see those you lost once again in your own children, but he’d never get the chance to do that. If we went back to Cairo today and tracked down someone by the name Al-Kaysani, would he find his brother’s descendants, would he recognize them, see their features in new faces?</p><p>Or would it just remind him that he was never meant for a family? His immortality made it impossible for them to settle down somewhere for good and foster like their friends aimed to do, those children would outgrow them while they stayed the same…</p><p>“Vartan, enough.” Kayvan set a hand on his gesturing arm. “You’re being very hurtful.”</p><p>“It’s the truth, and it’s not like you can love anyone that didn’t come from you.”</p><p>“I was raised by my uncle’s wife, or did you forget that fact?” Kayvan snapped. “I was given to their care when my parents died, then my uncle got ill, and I was left alone with her, and she didn’t turn me out the second he left us. She raised me among my cousins as her own, despite us sharing no blood.”</p><p>“That’s different!”</p><p>“No, it’s not, that’s exactly what Stasia wants to do, give a home to someone that lost theirs.”</p><p>Vartan snorted dismissively, a rude noise. “It’s not the same, your aunt already had children, you were her husband’s nephew and might as well have been hers. We can’t have any and it must be for a good reason.”</p><p>Nicolò finally spoke, so tense, and sudden that it made them all jump. “Would you say the same thing to the infertile?”</p><p>Vartan’s smugness vanished, replaced with a croaking speechlessness. “What does that have to do with anything?”</p><p>“What you’re saying to us is what plenty say to couples desperate to conceive,” he said, face twisting with a fury he’d rarely seen over the years. “Do you know how many women and men I’ve seen come to every church I’ve been in, lighting candles, praying to be made fertile, and hearing others tell them that it was God’s will. That they were not meant to have children and should accept that?”</p><p>“I—well—I didn’t—”</p><p>“Would you go up to them and say what you just told Eleni? Hmm? Answer me.”</p><p>Yusuf held his hand between his own. “Nikos, don’t bother.”</p><p>“It’s he who shouldn’t have bothered us with his self-involved opinions, passing them on as fact.”</p><p>“I think we should go,” Kayvan announced, getting up, tugging Vartan along with him. “He’s had too much to drink, it makes him intolerable.”</p><p>The women didn’t acknowledge them, their mood thoroughly ruined. Nicolò walked them out, leaving Yusuf to try tending to their friends.</p><p>The tension remained in the room long after the others left, Eleni and Anastasia sleeping in what was meant to be Yusuf’s room. As they cleaned up, he remained lost in thought, Vartan’s words ringing in his head.</p><p>“What is it?” Nicolò asked, drying his hands before slinging the towel over his shoulder. “You’ve been out of sorts all day, and I don’t think Vartan made it any better.”</p><p>He shook his head dismissively. “I feel like I’ve been faced with the reality of our condition, all the implications hitting me in one go.”</p><p>Nicolò approached, wrapping his arms around Yusuf’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Why now? Why not when you first realized you couldn’t die?”</p><p>“I’m not sure. It’s like I never had the chance to truly consider it before, we were always moving, not really living, and now, seeing others like us in one way leading lives I thought were beyond my reach…only to remember that they really are.”</p><p>“Do you mean children?” Nicolò pressed closer, chest against his back. “Did you want to be a father, before?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I assumed it was inevitable that I would need to get married to avoid scrutiny and my mother’s nagging, then I planned to die in Jerusalem, and you know the rest.” He sighed, resting back against Nicolò's hold, hands over those resting on his stomach, neck stretched back to drop his head on the shoulder behind it. A calming, intimate hold that never failed to remind him that he was lucky and he was loved to have found his true companion. “It’s just hard, that we can never grow roots in some place.”</p><p>“Or stop lying,” Nicolò added. “I can’t tell you how many times someone almost caught me, like they did today, asking where I’m from, how old I am. It wasn’t this hard when we were on the move, and without friends.”</p><p>“Well, you only have to worry about that for at least another ten to fifteen years before people start questioning our youthful looks,” he laughed tiredly.</p><p>“Where we could go next? Back to Egypt?”</p><p>Homesick as he felt, he knew that was a bad idea. If just the thought of seeing his old home, unrecognizable under Sunni rule, and the descendants of those he left behind overwhelmed him, then the actual sight of them could drive him mad.</p><p>“We never did get to go to Genova, I’d love to see where you grew up.”</p><p>Nicolò cracked an awkward grin. “Sure, once you turn ‘forty’ we head west.”</p><p>“Deal.” He turned his head and they sealed it with a kiss.</p><p>They continued the next few years without much incident, Anastasia and Eleni did end up taking on four children ranging from fifteen to five—Martha, Zoë, Andreas and Romana—Yusuf advanced through his job via recommendations and Nicolò graduated from training the idle youth of the rich to the guards at the palace, moving them both there. Ironically, a lot of the empire’s concessions went to the Italian republics of Venice and Genoa, it was as if their inability to show Yusuf his beloved’s homeland was inching closer to them.</p><p>While working as a treasurer for the current Byzantine Emperor and hearing murmurings of yet another Crusade, he grew concerned.</p><p>There they stayed until Constantinople was attacked and their world was set on fire. It was a disaster of epic proportions, throwing the whole city into the confused chaos, and no one could understand why they of all places were suffering.</p><p>The Franks were sacking their fellow Christians with a brutality he hadn’t seen since Jerusalem.</p><p>After decades of carrying their swords around, they had no choice but to unsheathe them again and cut down any Frank they saw. Yusuf had taken an arrow to the shoulder and throat, been stabbed in the eye and spine, and watched in horror as Nicolò was held back and had his throat slit before him, like before in Sinai.</p><p>When he came to again, shaking with terror that Nicolò would not get back up this time, he found him on his feet and in a crazed state, swinging his longsword at whoever dared cross his path, or even attempt to pass him.</p><p>Yusuf leaped up and buried his scimitar in the back of a Frank before stealing his helmet and sword. “What do we do?”</p><p>“Kill as many of them as we can!”</p><p>“And then what? Do we stay after it’s all done?”</p><p>“I don’t think this is will end in our favor, there’s too many of them and the city isn’t well-defended!” Nicolò kicked a Frank in the chest, swearing vulgarities at him in Latin before making a beheading swing.</p><p>They continued their trail of slaughtered enemies down through the city, through their old home before the palace, seeking out their friends.</p><p>“Where are Stasia and Eleni?” Nicolò yelled to him in the street as they tried to heard people safely out of the city. “Do you think they escaped?”</p><p>Yusuf checked behind them, anxious eyes frantically searching the crowd for two women towing four children behind them. Kayvan and Vartan had been conscripted to defend the city and it was unlikely they’d survive.</p><p>They fought and fought for hours until the situation appeared irreparably bleak, mile-high fires, bodies covering the streets, and a procession marching a Frankish lord into the heart of the city.</p><p>Nicolò had found a bow at some point and he had one arrow left in his quiver. “I should shoot him.”</p><p>“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”</p><p>But he didn’t listen to him. Nicolò sprinted ahead, tearing through the bloodied streets, advancing on the blond-bearded man heading to the Hagia Sophia.</p><p>They were almost inside the church when Nicolò surpassed the guards and readied his shot at the Frankish lord’s head.</p><p>“Nicolò, stop!” Yusuf yanked him back his shirt, making him miss his target. “You’ll make him a martyr, you’ll make it worse!”</p><p>But the damage was done. The arrow may have missed, but his guards took notice and turned their own firearms their way.</p><p>They couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.</p><p>As his body was riddled with arrows, one by one piercing his flesh like the teeth of a monster, he held Nicolò close to him, his final thought being of was his last conversation with Kyriakos, about how the Latin Church would not be kind to those from any other sect of Christianity. This was what sent him to the First Crusade, a hope to spare people like him.</p><p>And now it was hopeless.</p><p>The next time he awoke, the Frankish king and his men were gone, the city was still a hub of disaster, pillars of smoke scraping the grey morning sky.</p><p>Constantinople had fallen to the Franks.</p><p>Sitting up, he found Nicolò kneeling with his back to him, his face turned skywards, eyes closed.</p><p>Exhaling with relief, he reached for his shoulder. “Nico.”</p><p>Nicolò smacked his hand away.</p><p>Shock stalled his thoughts worse than the state of the city did. He’d never refused his touch before.</p><p>Air caught in his chest, he crawled before him. “Are you hurt?”</p><p>He didn’t answer, or move.</p><p>“Are you <em>praying?</em>” He rasped, too worn out to know if he was worried, confused or enraged at this point. “What good is that going to do?”</p><p>No answer.</p><p>Nerves bundling underneath his skin, buzzing like the burn of sea-foam in his blood, he reached for him again. “Nico—”</p><p>Nicolò shot to his feet, gripping his longsword, lips in a thin line. “I could have stopped him.”</p><p>So, that’s what this was about?</p><p>Rising to meet his gaze, Yusuf sheathed his scimitar. “No, you would have made him a martyr, giving reason for his pope to send more reinforcements to continue destroying everything in their path. They probably would have canonized him as a saint, fueling the fire of their ‘holy war’.”</p><p>“You don’t know that. I could have spared everyone further bloodshed and the subjugation they’ll now be under from the West. Now there’s nothing to stop them from doing that to the rest of the east!”</p><p>“Nicolò, it’s a lost cause! They already sacked the city and have no doubt done the same to Jerusalem again.”</p><p>“So, you’re telling me nothing I could do will ever make a difference.”</p><p>“Not on this grand a scale, no. We’re just two men, we don’t even owe an allegiance to any sovereign or creed and haven’t for a long time.”</p><p>“So, what? If I try to go in and assassinate him again you’ll stop me?”</p><p>He looked torn up by what happened, and he couldn’t blame him. It had been so long since they were in the center of something on this scale, and this had been their home. The first place that truly had everything they needed.</p><p>And now it was wrested from them and the Byzantines for who knew how long, if there was even a chance of reclamation.</p><p>“They’ll just send some other Frank noble to replace him, you know that.” His voice cracked, feeling defeated. “This will need an army, not just one man dead.”</p><p>The corners of Nicolò's mouth wobbled and frustrated tears sprung from his eyes. “I hate this. I hate how it won’t end. How long could this possibly go on?”</p><p>He approached with caution, setting his hands on Nicolò's arms. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“It doesn’t make any sense! Constantinople was Christian territory, why would they do this?”</p><p>“The Orthodox are heretics to the Latins, they Byzantines were excommunicated by the pope, remember?” he reminded him bitterly. “They probably mean to reunite it with Rome, like how Salah ad-Din made Fatimid territory Sunni.”</p><p>Nicolò sobbed, face twisting with anger and frustration. “I loved this place.”</p><p>“I know, me too,” he said sadly, moving his hands up to cup his face. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Nicolò shook his head, squeezing the tears out of his eyes. “No, you’re right. It wouldn’t have made a difference.”</p><p>He sheathed his sword and came in closer, hugging Yusuf tightly. He could the tears on his neck and that jostled him enough out of his shock to register the destroyed city and cry just as hard.</p><p>“What do we do now?” Nicolò rasped. “Where do we go?”</p><p>They had discussed Genova as their next destination before, but Nicolò was still cagey about his home and past, and the fact that he didn’t suggest it proved worrisome.</p><p>“East?” Yusuf suggested. “Find those women we still dream of?”</p><p>“We’ll have to take a path that’ll avoid any line of the Crusades, or else I won’t be able to stop myself from killing any leader I see.”</p><p>“So, I take it heading down to Damascus is too risky?”</p><p>“Perhaps. What’s in Damascus?”</p><p>“I hear they have these swords unlike any in the world, steel that has a rippling pattern.”</p><p>“Then let’s get you one.” Nicolò pulled back, eyes red-rimmed, mouth still quivering. “We could use new weapons wherever we’re going after that.”</p><p>Stroking back his straight, dusty, bloodied hair, reminding him of the circumstances of their meeting, he tried smiling. “I always wanted to see Baghdad.”</p><p>“Before we go, I want to check for our friends to see if they’re fine.”</p><p>“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”</p><p>“Why not?” Nicolò nearly yelled. “Eleni, Stasia, the children, Kayvan—”</p><p>“With any hope, they’ll have fled the city. But I don’t to risk what would happen to you should we find their remains.” He cupped Nicolò's face, thumbing the teardrops off his cheekbones. “Let’s just go.”</p><p>After that, he didn’t put up much of a fight.</p><p>They left Constantinople that night, on the backs of stolen horses, and supplies they gathered from damaged and abandoned homes.</p><p>It was the worst goodbye they had ever bid any of their homes.</p>
<hr/><p>They had terrible timing. Most of the Levant did not have to just deal with the Franks, but the Mongols as well.</p><p>Their stay in Damascus was brief, but Yusuf did manage to acquire a ripple-steel sword from a man he’d saved from a gruesome death. From there they found that Baghdad was not an option and it had been sacked by the Mongols two years prior, stopping a Golden Age of Middle Eastern advancements in its tracks.</p><p>They continued heading east, down into Persia, now claiming to be a Sunni scholar and the Genoese trader he’d converted to Islam. Nicolò now went by the name Nasir Al-Janua, a close translation of his name. Nikolaos and Nasir both had the root word for ‘victory’, and Al-Janua literally mean ‘the Genoese man’.</p><p>He was pretty proud of himself for that choice, showing that he spoke Arabic well enough to pass for a native-speaker. He still overdid it on the letter ع, but Yusuf couldn’t blame him, it was a sound that didn’t seem to exist outside Arabic and Hebrew.</p><p>Deciding their best bet to find the two women was to accompany traders heading eastward, they joined the Silk Road, working as caravan guards. They left Tehran with new, beautiful clothes, rosewater sweets, wine, and a book of poetry dubbed <em>The Quatrains of Omar Khayyam</em>, or, more commonly, the<em> Rubiyyat</em>.</p><p>Sitting out side, holding the rains as they headed up northeast, the middle of a line of bountiful caravans, heading for the heart of the Mongol Empire to see if they could get any information on their ‘sisters’ as Nicolò had taken to calling them, Yusuf opened the book and began to read in the light of the lamps and the moon.</p><p>“Can you understand anything?” Nicolò asked.</p><p>“I understand enough. It’s just hard to get my eyes to adjust to some of these new letters.” He pointed to one line. “They look like Arabic letters with diacritics, what makes a K-sound now with an added line is a G-sound, and I’m trying to keep in mind that their <em>Waw</em> is a <em>Vav</em>.”</p><p>“Kayvan never mentioned that.”</p><p>“I don’t think he was aware of the difference, he didn’t know Arabic, and he was never expected to know any, unlike Muslim Persians who need it to read the Quran.” He closed the book, finding it hard to focus now. “Think they’ll ever translate the holy texts, make it easier for the masses to read them?”</p><p>“Not anytime soon, not when they keep sanctifying the languages they’re written in.”</p><p>“The originals were in Hebrew and Aramaic.”</p><p>“Not where my people are concerned, it needs to be in Latin. I’d be surprised if they allow Qurans in whatever language they speak in Malta these days.”</p><p>“I believe Malta has been re-Christianized at this point.”</p><p>“Who knows what the future holds, these lands keep getting passed back and forth like a child’s ball game,” Nicolò sighed. “That’s one thing I’m curious about in this new place we’re heading. Apparently they’re still pagans.”</p><p>“I don’t know about pagan, but I’ve heard the Mongols tolerate all faiths and languages under their empire,” Yusuf noted. “It’s a nice touch, for an invader culture, but that won’t make for the strongest of strangleholds on your subjects, look at what happened to the Fatimids.”</p><p>“You’re right. Or a way for a lingua franca to develop.” Nicolò turned to him, half-lit by the warm lamplight, giving his hair an earthy hue in the dim light, his eyes appearing dark. “What language do you think our sisters will speak? I’m sensing they’re far older than us.”</p><p>“I’m hoping the one with the axe speaks Greek.”</p><p>“She does look like one of the fabled Amazons, doesn’t she?”</p><p>“I hope so, imagine the stories she could tell. She could dispute a few historical figures and facts for us.”</p><p>Nicolò shifted closer on their seat, resting his head on his shoulder. “Like what?”</p><p>“If any religious figures actually existed, if Alexander was the son of Zeus, if any of the Greek heroes existed, same goes for their gods, if so, what happened to them?”</p><p>“You just want to pester her with questions about the Trojan War, don’t you?”</p><p>Yusuf felt himself smiling, his center becoming tender with fondness. “It’d be useful, knowing where that river Achilles’ mother dipped him in really is, we could use it. I’m stick of being stabbed.”</p><p>Nicolò chuckled, nuzzling Yusuf’s neck, making shivers run down his arms. “There’s the issue of Achilles’ heel though.”</p><p>“That story always irked me. Why couldn’t his mother just find a way to make his entire body invulnerable, why’d she hold him by his heel?”</p><p>“She didn’t anticipate Paris shooting him there.”</p><p>“Still.”</p><p>“What would you have suggested? Should we find the River Styx, how am I to keep you from washing downstream?”</p><p>“Dunk me by my hair, like you’re uprooting a plant.”</p><p>Nicolò laughed hard, his breath warm on Yusuf’s throat. The hardest he’d laughed since Constantinople. It made Yusuf’s heart flutter with pride. He had finally made him feel better.</p><p>“I was thinking more along the lines of being in a fisherman’s net. You get soaked from head to toe then I reel you back in.”</p><p>“That’s more comfortable than my hair, I’ll admit.”</p><p>Nicolò brushed a kiss against his cheek. “Sometimes I think of those tales, about how fantastical and ridiculous they seem, with their magic and their gods, but look at us. I have to wonder now, what if they were real?”</p><p>“The past holds so many secrets we can’t hope to grasp, we don’t know how many stories, historical events, or people are lost to the sands of time because we can’t find their lands or read their languages,” he said. “My ancestors, their language is undecipherable, all we know is from Greek accounts, and all that survived of it is the Coptic language, which is in an alphabet more similar to Greek than anything.” He exhaled out his nostrils, slouching sadly. “Sometimes I wish I was old enough to remember things like that, forgotten tales and tongues.”</p><p>“The same goes for the Etruscans in Italy, all we know is what the Romans wrote.” Nicolò shifted, his hair ticking Yusuf’s jaw despite the thick stubble that had grown in their travels. “Imagine, if we were there in antiquity, I from the Roman Empire, you from Ptolemy’s Egypt. What would we do? How would we meet?”</p><p>“I imagine I’d be in Cleopatra’s court when you arrived with Caesar among his personal guard.” Yusuf rested his head atop Nicolò's own.</p><p>“What do you do there?”</p><p>“I’m her advisor, I helped her get rid of her brother-husband so she could rule in her own name, and I learn foreign languages with her. I am there in her throne room when you arrive escorting Caesar. Our eyes meet and theirs is not the only legendary love affair that sparks from that meeting.”</p><p>“How do we both discover we’re immortal? Separately or together?”</p><p>“Hmm, let me think.” He put an arm around Nicolò, looping it back around to continue holding the reins. “I die after Cleopatra poisons herself, in the coup on her palace. I rise up again, at a loss but refusing to serve the ones that depose her, and I set sail for Rome, searching for you. We reunite after you’d killed Brutus and Cassius for their betrayal of Caesar.”</p><p>“You’re damn right I did.” He could hear Nicolò smiling. “And then?”</p><p>“We refuse to serve Augustus and head up through Europe, to the lands Caesar wrote about, the Celts, they were called, right?”</p><p>“Depends. Are we talking about the ones in what is now France or Angleland?”</p><p>“We go back and forth, traveling around the continent, then return in time to witness the advent of Christianity in the east.”</p><p>“Do we meet Jesus?”</p><p>“Possibly. Does he exist in this scenario?”</p><p>“He existed,” Nicolò argued. “No one disputes that.”</p><p>“I don’t know, the fact that the Quran was written long after Muhammed had died and that Jesus’ disciples wrote slightly conflicting accounts makes me doubt their legitimacy. None of them wrote anything down themselves. That’s why schisms and sects kept happening.”</p><p>Despite being released of his duties by death, Nicolò occasionally had his doubts, but Yusuf suspected they were about to clinging to familiarity and comforts than residual belief. And he couldn’t say that he was immune, he’d visited a handful of mosques in their travels for the company and nostalgia more than anything. It was never going to be quite what they knew before, especially since the sects and languages changed, but it was better than nothing.</p><p>But whereas Yusuf still had the lingering fear of jinn and ghouls, bolstered by their immortality, and the occasional consideration that their life was a death-dream, Nicolò cherry-picked the positives, like admirable quotes, the miraculous deeds of saints and soothing prayers to the Virgin Mary. He sometimes felt that Nicolò talked more to her than God, Son and Father.</p><p>He wondered if this had something to do with his real mother, but after decades he tried not to pry. Nicolò would tell him when he felt like it.</p><p>“You’re right,” Nicolò sighed. “Everything that came after seems to have been orchestrated to benefit those who remained, God only knows what they actually did or said.”</p><p>“Same goes for all the prophets before them, if they existed, from Ibrahim to Lut to my namesake,” he said. “I was always more interested in the opposing cultures in the Old Testament, the Phoenicians, the Mesopotamians, my ancestors, I just wish we knew more about them aside from ‘they’re polytheistic therefore they’re evil’.”</p><p>“What do you think our lands would have been like had they remained polytheistic?”</p><p>“More liberated I suppose, everyone would be free to worship whatever god they wished, relationships like ours would be common-place and romanticized.” He pressed a long, chaste kiss to Nicolò's forehead. “Like Achilles and Patroclus.”</p><p>“Which god would you worship?”</p><p>“The only ones I know of are Amun and Isis, because the Greeks worshipped them as well, so, I suppose Isis?”</p><p>“Mine would be Apollo.”</p><p>“Because he’s an eternally beautiful young man like yourself?”</p><p>“Flatterer.” Nicolò laughed, before breaking off into a yawn. “Because he’s the god of archery and he liked men as well as women, and I am a marksman at heart.”</p><p>“Nothing about him being the sun god and lord of poetry for you?”</p><p>“No, that’s you.”</p><p>Yusuf nearly hiccuped, moving back to catch Nicolò's gaze, finding those large adoring eyes looking up at him, almost silver in the moonlight. “Me?”</p><p>“You’re the poet, I could never get tired of hearing how you see and experience things, and you are the sun to me, the brightest thing in my life, I…I don’t know what I’d do without you.”</p><p>Yusuf suddenly felt choked up, like his heart had been caught in a firm fist, but not in the sense of dread, but like Nicolò had reached into his chest to take it.</p><p>And he’d let him have it.</p><p>“Let’s hope we never have to find out what that’s like, never have to be one without the other like Achilles was without Patroclus.”</p><p>“Achilles should have taken Patroclus to the Styx, made them equal in invulnerability as we are in immortality.”</p><p>“We don’t know if we are. Each time you die, I fear that you won’t get back up.”</p><p>“There’s no reason to believe I won’t,” he said softly.</p><p>“And I hope we never do,” Yusuf said shakily, overwhelmed. “If I am your sun, then you are my moon, you are the one bright spot in the surrounding darkness.” He leaned in, kissing one cheek, then the next. <em>“Anta amar layali.”</em></p><p>“Moon of all your nights?” Nicolò smiled, eyes soft. “You once told me that the highest compliment you could pay someone’s looks in Arabic was to compare them to the Moon.”</p><p>“It is, I am.”</p><p>Nicolò bridged the small gap, kissing him soundly. “I love you, more than the sun has rays.”</p><p>“And I love you more than the sky has stars.”</p><p>They settled back together, and continued riding into a newer world.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't forget to leave a comment! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧</p><p>You can follow me here on <a href="http://lucyclairedelune.tumblr.com"><b>Tumblr</b></a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Through the Silk Road they reach the court of the Great Khan in their continued search for their 'sisters'. From there they form a unit that travels through the lands and centuries, among them experiencing the Renaissance and the Golden Age of England, meeting da Vinci, Michelangelo and Shakespeare until they encounter rising witch-hunts...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>They finally meet up with Andy and Quynh, experience the Renaissance, discuss their heritage, relationship and future.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Along the Silk Road to the court of Kublai Khan, they gained an unlikely travel companion. Another Italian.</p><p>Marco Polo of Venice, and his father and uncle, the former of the which shared Nicolò's name, were intriguing company. There was a slight struggle in communication due to the Venetian dialect and the general Latin they knew having become slightly outdated, but they were delighted to have a compatriot as their company.</p><p>They arrived in the city of Shangdu, bone-tired and sick of the constant motion and travel, and were unexpectedly welcomed into the court of the Great Khan. An fat, aging man, the underwhelming grandson of the fearful conquerer Genghis, Kublai had a fascination for the foreign and strange, keeping plenty employed in his palace.</p><p>Once they explained that they had fought in the Crusades—not specifying which one—he found them nearly as interesting as Marco Polo, who had become an instant favorite. The fact that they had not only once been warriors, but from opposing sides, provided great entertainment.</p><p>They had spent a handful of years at the Great Khan’s service, occasionally traveling around his lands alongside Marco, keeping an eye out for the axe-wielding Amazon and her companion, before returning empty-handed. Upon their return, Kublai began confiding in them, and over a meal shared outside with his favorites, he asked their opinions as men who fought in the Crusades, on what he could do to conquer the fringe peoples of his empire.</p><p>It was when he mentioned the land to the south called Dai Viet, complaining that he had failed to conquer it and about its women archers, that Nicolò gripped Yusuf’s arm so tightly that he almost dropped his tea.</p><p><em>“The women, one of them holds a bow, and she looks like she could be from here,” </em>he said to him in Genoese. <em>“Could they be down there?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“They must be, I feel like if we travel any further east we’ll end up back in the Maghreb.”</em>
</p><p>“What are you two saying?” demanded the Khan.</p><p>“We were discussing battle tactics we saw in the Crusade, perhaps we could be of use if we saw the people of Dai Viet, learned their methods and reported back to you,” Nicolò answered excitedly.</p><p>“Then that settles it, you accompany my men the next time they depart south.”</p><p>Nicolò's face split in the brightest grin he’d worn in ages, hope glimmering in his eyes. “We’d be honored to.”</p><p>Under the table, he squeezed Yusuf’s hand, and the anticipation of finding their ‘sisters’ had risen within him as well.</p><p>They departed south as soon as possible, accompanying the fleet of Kublai’s Turkic commander Omar down the Red River to, reportedly, help the Khan deal with the troublesome Tran, embarking on the third official Mongol invasion of the Dai Viet.</p><p>Each night, they shared dreams of the women more vivid than ever before. They could see them clearly and <em>hear</em> them.</p><p>After several skirmishes with the Viet people, including some small victories, they were gearing up for a successful battle.</p><p>Nicolò bolted upright one night gasping, “Andromache!”</p><p>Yusuf, arm still around Nicolò's middle, eyelids heavy with sleep, hummed questioningly.</p><p>“The Amazon, she does in fact have a Greek name: Andromache. It’s the only word I understood from their speech.”</p><p>“It looks like we will be able to speak to her after all,” Yusuf mumbled, pulling Nicolò back down, hugging him against his body. “Let’s hope she taught the other one her tongue so we can all communicate.”</p><p>Nicolò faced him, not fully out of sleep’s grasp. “I believe she has. I believe that they’re…” a yawn cut him off. “They’re like us.”</p><p>“We already knew that.”</p><p>“No, like <em>us</em>.” Emphasizing his point, Nicolò gave him a lazy, misplaced kiss, half on his chin.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>Nicolò sank back into his dreams, but Yusuf couldn’t help thinking of the friends they left behind in Constantinople. It was unlikely they survived, but these two who awaited them, were like them in all the important ways, immortal warriors in love.</p><p>The next day, the Mongol forces appeared to be winning the fight when the Viet retreated from their attack, but when they chased them further back they found that they had been lured into a trap.</p><p>They were caught in all-out battlefield, full of horseback archers and swinging swords. The fleet was sunk, preventing the Mongols’ retreat and Omar was captured, that was when Yusuf and Nicolò, with three deaths and quick revivals each under their belts each, split off in search of their ‘sisters’.</p><p>Yusuf caught sight of the first of them. Swinging her axe, taller than a good chunk of the men, with skin a bit fairer than Nicolò's. He headed straight for her, cutting down everyone in his way, calling, “Andromache!”</p><p>When she turned to stare wide-eyed at him, someone struck her down.</p><p>An arrow caught Yusuf before he could reach her.</p><p>When he came to, the battle had ended and he was far from the field he had died on. He could tell as much from the sound of the river outside the tent he was in.</p><p>Curious, he peeked outside and found a campfire, and sitting around it, roasting meat, were Nicolò and the two women.</p><p>Even in the dim firelight, he could see just how happy Nicolò was, talking with the Viet woman, gesturing animatedly.</p><p>Pleased, he decided to make himself known, stepping out and clearing his throat, greeting them in Greek. “Good evening.”</p><p>Nicolò got to his feet and herded him to the log they were seated on. “Finally, you’re up!”</p><p>Brushing a kiss to his cheek, he sat him down and placed the food in his hands on a large leaf. “These are Andromache and Quynh.”</p><p>“Nico has told us so much about you,” Quynh said sweetly, yet sadly, an undertone of exhaustion. She was a slim, small-boned woman, with sharp eyes and full yet flat lips, her ovular face tapering into a narrow jaw.</p><p>The Mongols must have won. If he had learned anything from what he’d seen in both the Crusade battles they were caught in, he knew not to bring it up.</p><p>“Good things I hope.” He reached across, offering each his hand. “Quynh, what does that mean?”</p><p>“It’s a shade of red, named after a flower,” she explained.</p><p>“Lovely.” He kissed her hand. “It’s honor to finally meet you. How did you find Nicolò?”</p><p>“After you and Andromache fell, we ran to you, and once we saw each other we knew,” said Quynh, almost like she was already fond of him. And who could blame her? “I knew he was the man from my dreams, and you had to be his rough-bearded companion.”</p><p>A laugh escaped Yusuf as he stroked his chin. “Rough-bearded, that’s new.”</p><p>“It’s the truth,” said Nicolò, wrinkling his nose. “Your beard itches my face when we kiss.”</p><p>Andromache finally spoke. “And this is why I rarely bother with men.”</p><p>She was an imposing yet lanky woman with long, wavy, dark-brown hair, small features and green eyes, though they had more yellow tint to them than Nicolò's sea-green.</p><p>“Are you Andromache, wife of King Hector?” he asked.</p><p>The question intrigued her, brows raising, lip curling outward. “That’s a new one, but no.”</p><p>“Did Troy—Ilium exist?” Nicolò asked.</p><p>“I knew of a Wilion, it’s in Anatolia.”</p><p>Nicolò swore, <em>“Santa Maria, madre di dio.”</em></p><p>Pleased, Yusuf pinched his cheek. “I told you so. You owe me your end of the bet.”</p><p>Andromache curled her fingers inward, urging him to share. “What did he bet?”</p><p>Nicolò tried to hide his face in his shirt. “That Homer’s <em>Iliad </em>was set in the Phoenician city of Tyre, not Anatolia.”</p><p>“And what does he owe you?” Quynh asked, peering up at them, the firelight glimmering in her dark eyes.</p><p>“Something I can’t say in front of a lady,” Yusuf said.</p><p>Andromache snorted, a rude, jarring noise. “Fuck that, tell us.”</p><p>It was something he wanted to try in the bedroom, but Nicolò’s was resistant. Aside from their similar religious backgrounds, Nicolò’s view on ‘Greek love’ was influenced by the Romans, who dubbed it inherently unequal, about domination more than mutual pleasure.</p><p>Consequentially, it had taken them ages of grinding like Greek soldiers until he finally convinced Nicolò that the alternative wouldn’t humiliate or hurt him. Once he did give in, Yusuf triumphantly had his legs over Nicolò’s shoulders for what felt like months on end.</p><p>It took even longer for them to try it the other way around, mostly because Yusuf craved being manhandled. It helped quiet his anxious mind to just lay back and put himself in trusted hands, to be worshipped, comforted, pleasured, <em>loved</em>.</p><p>The latest desired act was one he’d seen depicted on Ancient Greek vase in Constantinople and asked their friends about. The thought flustered Nicolò, who felt it was demeaning to have Yusuf kneel between his legs like he were in prayer.</p><p>“I want to worship him on my knees as if he were my own personal god,” he said smoothly.</p><p>Andromache wagged her eyebrows at them. “Never heard it put that way before, but I’m impressed you managed to make ‘playing the flute’ sound poetic.”</p><p>It may have been dark, but Nicolò had turned as red as Quynh’s namesake.</p><p>After holding his haze long enough, seemingly sizing him up, Andromache reached for his hand, shaking it with a firm, calloused grip. “What are you two, by the way?”</p><p>“I’m Egyptian.”</p><p>Her brows rose, intrigued. “Egypt, wow. That place is almost as old as I am.” She looked to Nicolò. “And you?”</p><p>“Genoese—Roman?”</p><p>Andromache tapped her nose for emphasis. “Oh, yeah, I can see that.”</p><p>“Are you an Amazon?” Nicolò asked.</p><p>“Only in spirit.” She cracked a small smile, amused. “I’m a Scythian.”</p><p>Yusuf and Nicolò shared a confused look.</p><p>“Scythian? Have we heard that before?” Nicolò mumbled uncertainly.</p><p>“I think Herodotus mentioned a people called the <em>Sikthiyeen</em>, but that’s what my Arabic translation called them,” Yusuf murmured uncertainly.</p><p>“That term should be familiar to you in the west, because we called ourselves Scoloti.” Andromache frowned at them. “How old are you two?”</p><p>“A little over two hundred years, I think?” Nicolò looked to Yusuf for confirmation, but he had no idea what year it was, he’d had an assistant at the palace who dated the documents for him.</p><p>“Thereabouts,” he added. “Why?”</p><p>“Explains why you never heard of us,” she said. “Scythian territory stretched from Dacia to somewhere around and above Persia.”</p><p>“Dacia?” Yusuf asked. “Is that where the Bulgar are?”</p><p>“That’s Thrace. I think Dacia was somewhere the Romans reached,” said Nicolò.</p><p>“It was,” Andromache confirmed.</p><p>“We thought you were a Greek.” Yusuf tried not to sound disappointed, worried if his hope for tales from antiquity was lost.</p><p>She moved her hand side to side in a so-so gesture. “We were nomadic, but we had close ties to the Greeks, I was from one of the settlements around the Black Sea that had a mixed population.”</p><p>“To give us an idea on where and when, are there any historical figures we may know of that you interacted with before you became immortal?” Nicolò asked.</p><p>“Before? No. But since you mentioned Herodotus, last time I interacted with the Greeks was when we lost a war to Philip of Macedon. I began to wander around the time his son tried to conquer the entire known world.”</p><p>Like fanning embers to flame, Yusuf’s intrigue was rekindled. “I used to live in Alexandria, the first city founded by Alexander. Did you meet him?”</p><p>She made a tired, dull face. “On his way to Persia, yes. I was a friend of a <em>hetaera</em> that accompanied the higher-ups in his army. Almost killed Cleitus half-a-dozen times.”</p><p>Nicolò snorted.</p><p><em>“Hetaera?”</em> Quynh asked. “You were a companion of a companion?”</p><p>For the first time her cool facade lowered, exhibiting a humanizing sign of awkwardness. “Hetaeras were a…class of prostitute, they were exclusive to a certain kind and number of clients, and they were expected to be well-learned to not just warm their beds but engage them intellectually.”</p><p>“You slept with her, didn’t you?” Quynh said bluntly.</p><p>“Oh, I slept with many men and women on the trip to India.”</p><p>Quynh punched her arm, eliciting a betrayed “Ow!”</p><p>“What? It was before you were even born!”</p><p>“I don’t want to hear about your past exploits.”</p><p>“What was I supposed to do, be a monk until you showed up?”</p><p>“It’s just unfair, considering I don’t have any of my own.”</p><p>“How long have you two been together?” Nicolò asked, halting their simmering argument.</p><p>“A while, I don’t know, I stopped counting the years,” said Andromache, hooking an arm around Quynh’s shoulders, pulling her back to kiss her ear, making her giggle. “Did you two say you were around the same age?”</p><p>“I’m around three years older,” Yusuf said.</p><p>Nicolò tickled under his chin. “He looks much younger without the beard, he grows it out when we need to pretend he has aged.”</p><p>“You’re both babies,” Andromache cooed.</p><p>Yusuf was taken aback by that assessment, but it made him feel better. He was prone to depressive spirals about the passage of time.</p><p>Ducking his chin, Yusuf grabbed Nicolò's offending hand.“So, Alexander, was it true about him and his friend?”</p><p>Andromache rested her cheek against Quynh’s head, smooshing the flesh up to shut one eye. “Which one? He had a host of them.”</p><p>“His close friend, Hephaestion,” Yusuf emphasized. “It was said they found Achilles and Patroclus’s graves and set wreaths on them, was it true?”</p><p>“I don’t know if it was their graves, that may have been before I joined them, but yeah, they were fucking.”</p><p>Quynh elbowed her. “Do you have to be so crass? He’s obviously asked if they were in love!”</p><p>“If they were they certainly weren’t monogamous then, but Alexander fell apart pretty fast after Hephaestion died.”</p><p>“Just like Achilles with Patroclus’s death,” Nicolò noted, in awe.</p><p>“Yeah, neither are a fate to aspire to if that’s what you two are doing,” Andromache said, gritting her teeth with discomfort. “Not that either of you can drink yourself to death like our friend Alexander did.”</p><p>“We did take a similar route to his to get here,” Nicolò said.</p><p>“We’ve gone further, he only reached India whereas we bypassed it,” Yusuf pointed out.</p><p>That seemed to amuse Andromache. “And where have you been the past two-hundred years?”</p><p>“Traveling and settling on and off. We started having dreams of you maybe two years into that time?” He looked to Nicolò for confirmation, who just shrugged.</p><p>“Well, good to finally meet you,” Quynh said sweetly, reaching out to hold Nicolò's other hand. “You two sure took your sweet time showing up.”</p><p>“It’s not our fault you live at the end of the world,” Yusuf said, the memory of their journey east suddenly weighing down on him, reigniting the sense of exhaustion. “Any further east and we’d fall into the ocean. How did you end up here anyway?”</p><p>“Boredom, mostly. I’ve been almost everywhere over my long, long years and then I started dreaming of Quynh, and I had to find her. And find her alone, with her sunburned skin looking scales, in the Gobi desert.”</p><p>“How did you two meet?” Quynh asked them, slightly chipper.</p><p>“And how did you two die?” Andromache asked.</p><p>Nicolò bit his lip, uncomfortable. He sought out Yusuf, questioning eyes dilated in the firelight. It wasn’t something they talked about, the last time it came up was during their time in Greece, when they heard of the Second Crusade and the fall of the Fatimids, and they had a disastrous argument where he had blamed Nicolò for the state of the Near East.</p><p>It was hurtful, and stupid, and beyond their control, but thankfully they could never stay too mad at one another. They’d never broached the subject since, not even after the sack of Constantinople.</p><p>“We killed each other,” he finally answered, squeezing Nicolò's hand. “We were on opposite sides of a religious war.”</p><p>Quynh’s jaw dropped. Andromache grinned brightly, her heavy-lidded eyes finally opening all the way up in something akin to morbid excitement. “Damn, you must have had some pretty intense hate-fucking.”</p><p>Nicolò made a strangled noise and Yusuf stuttered a few false starts before getting out a firm “No.”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“We didn’t—We weren’t intimate until after we had been become close friends.”</p><p>Andromache sagged with disappointment. “And here I thought we were in for some delightfully messy stories.”</p><p>“You’re horrible,” Quynh wheezed.</p><p>“What? You’re telling me that if we were fighting on opposite sides and discovered ourselves to be compatible in all ways but seething hatred for each other’s army that we wouldn’t have had some very confused, very heightened feelings that could have gone from <em>fight</em> to <em>fuck </em>very fast?”</p><p>“That is a very detailed scenario you’ve got there,” said Quynh suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re not recounting a memory with some other warrior you met?”</p><p>Andromache remained silent, eyes avoiding her gaze by rolling to the left.</p><p>Quynh punched her again, Andromache responded by pulling her into a headlock and rubbing her knuckles on her hair. “Would you stop?”</p><p>“Never!” Quynh laughed.</p><p>Yusuf relaxed, and wrapped his arm around Nicolò's waist, pulling him closer. “So, you definitely weren’t around for the Trojan War then?”</p><p>Andromache made a puzzled face before breaking out into successive snorts of amusement. “I’ve been in a few wars in that general Hittite area, but I don’t know if it was about one war, a bunch merged together, or if it’s something that happened after I left because even back in the days of Homer that story was ancient.”</p><p>“That’s pretty interesting.”</p><p>“That’s his diplomatic way of saying he’s disappointed,” Nicolò said. “On a similar topic, do you think there’s a chance we’re demigods?”</p><p>“Well, Zeus whored his way around the Mediterranean for millennia, there’s no saying other gods didn’t behave similarly, and I wouldn’t put it past them,” Andromache said, making them all laugh.</p><p>Seeing the way Nicolò brightened up with their company, the way his eyes shined like stars, he knew that he had done the right thing by choosing to head east.</p><p>They had finally found their family, one that couldn’t be taken away from them by time.</p>
<hr/><p>Out from Dai Viet they sailed north around Mongol territory, briefly stopping in an island the Khan had told them was Nippon, where the sun rises. After, they sailed off again, aiming for north of what Andromache claimed was Scythian territory.</p><p>Decades upon decades passed as they crossed the continent, inching towards the Black Sea, finally reached the land of the Kievan Rus’. Through Slavic territory they had changed their names and frequently paired up into ‘married couples’ with Nicolò and Andromache passing themselves off as siblings bringing their foreign spouses home.</p><p>Now going by Nikolai and Iosef, with Quynh playing the role of Nicolò's Chinese wife from across the steppes, Andromache as his sister Andreia, and Yusuf as her Persian merchant husband, they traversed the lands of the Rus, learning their languages, their customs, and working in the court of many a prince.</p><p>By the time they passed the Black Sea and moved further into Europe, they had heard that the Crusades were finally done, the Byzantine Empire had officially collapsed after an embarrassingly short Frankish rule and restoration, allowing the Turks to move in and raise the fearful Ottoman Empire.</p><p>On a ship heading west, they were told that Salah ad-Din’s dynasty had long fallen and Egypt was currently in the hands of the Turks. A fact that made Yusuf repeatedly slam his fist angrily into the door of their ship lodgings, breaking his own knuckles and their skin.</p><p>As he trembled with rage and pain, Nicolò had brought the bloodied fist to his lips as he whispered soothing words.</p><p>“Is my home ever going to be free from invaders?” he had rasped miserably. “Persians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Turks, and who knows how many other, smaller attempts. When will they leave us alone? Our native language is dead, its remains struggling to survive in Coptic, our ancestors, their gods, culture, and stories forgotten, and whenever we begin to recover and resurge someone comes barging in. What do they want?”</p><p>“Fertile land, a river, access to two seas, land that connects two continents, an established society to exploit,” Nicolò mumbled, lips red with Yusuf’s blood. “I sometimes wonder about the Etruscans, and of my ancestors the Ligurians, beyond Roman accounts, I know nothing. They left no writing that could hope to be deciphered and I have no way of telling if Genoese is a true descendant of their tongue.”</p><p>“We know some sided with Carthage during the Punic war,” Yusuf offered up, the bones in his hand re-setting themselves. “And that Lombards, Byzantines and Franks invaded Liguria as well.”</p><p>“I sometimes wonder if that’s why I’m fairer than many others in Italy, if I’m truly a Lombard.”</p><p>“I entertain that thought as well. But you have a face I’ve only seen on busts of Roman men.” Yusuf smiled at him sadly. “I was always told that I would see the faces of lost loved ones in my children, but I’ll never have children. Now I wonder if my own ancestors can be seen in my face as I see the Romans in yours.”</p><p>Nicolò kissed his way up Yusuf’s hand before pressing his cheek against it. “They can, none of the Arabs or Persians or Greeks we encountered in our travels looked like you, but plenty throughout our journey across Egypt did.” He nuzzled his hand, making Yusuf’s heart swell with love. “Their languages, stories, history may be faded, but they’re still here in us and our compatriots. And like Andromache said, Egypt is almost as old as she is, and will endure just as long, we’ll see its fate change soon enough.”</p><p>He removed his hand from Nicolò’s face. “You really think so?”</p><p>Humming, eyes dark in the lantern-light of their room, he said, “Empires always end, we’ve seen that happen to the Byzantines, and their replacements are no exception.”</p><p>“That better be the case, or I’ll have to try assassinating the entire ruling class.”</p><p>“What did you say about making martyrs?”</p><p>Yusuf had to laugh. “Oh, now you agree?”</p><p>He moved in, bringing them nose to nose. “Just using your own words, that freely reside in your mouth.”</p><p>Yusuf couldn’t resist leering at him. “You can take the words out of my mouth and put something else in their place.”</p><p>Nicolò quickly became flustered, licking his lips. “We’re on a ship, someone will hear.”</p><p>“Exactly, we’re on a ship, and any man who’s been at sea long enough has found release between another man’s thighs. Also, you think Andromache and Quynh are abstaining?” He set his hands on Nicolò’s knees and slowly moved them up his legs. “Your sweet words of wisdom have softened my anger and stirred a stronger sensation in their place, let me share it with you.”</p><p>Ever the anxious one, Nicolò’s eyes darted to the wall and the door then he rose with a surrendering sigh, and pulled his shirt over his head. “Do you always have to be such a poet?”</p><p>Rising to undress, Yusuf winked at him. “It’s easy to be inspired when I share eternity with my muse.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>stop.</em>” Nicolò tackled him onto the bed, making him laugh.</p><p>The waves weren’t the only thing that rocked the ship that night.</p><p>Aside from the distressing updates on the places he left behind, the best news was that out of Italy was a period of rebirth and enlightenment.</p><p>After centuries together, Yusuf finally got to see the land that had once held the Roman Empire, and what made his Nicolò. Not Genova, but close enough.</p><p>Now back to being Nicolò di Genova, he dubbed Andromache as ‘my big sister Adriana’ since Andrea was a man’s name, and Yusuf introduced himself as Giuseppe Caisani, alternating between Sicilian and Egyptian depending on their stop, and no one batted an eye. Though, hilariously, a few did stop Quynh and asked her if she knew Marco Polo, who had died over a century prior. Andromache turned more heads than the three of them combined by virtue of being a very tall woman in men’s clothes.</p><p>After a brief stop in Venice, where Quynh kept leaping into the canals to swim alongside the gondolas, they headed further west then south, taking Italy from the top and all the way into the heart of the Renaissance, Florence and Rome.</p><p>Nicolò's Genoese was so different from the emergent Italian and Latin had fallen out of use, but it took them a few years of playing tourist for them to get the hang of it. One thing that helped the adjustment was the rise of literature written not in Latin, but in Italian, and they had a poet called Dante and his delightfully blasphemous work, <em>The Divine Comedy</em>, to thank for that.</p><p>Once they were capable of reading their acquired copy, Yusuf enjoyed the tale, filled to the brim with references, details, imaginative punishments, and tragic love the narrator could not have. Dante’s love for Beatrice—a woman he apparently was neither involved nor familiar with in reality—evoked the yearning of most Arabic poetry, to love from afar, idealize someone you could never have, and the nobility of an unfulfilled desire.</p><p>It was something he had believed himself destined for, doomed to write longing treatises on the men he could not have, until he’d found Nicolò.</p><p>He wondered if this trait in European literature could have been influenced by the Crusades, that Europeans had communicated enough with the people of the Near East to exchange knowledge and culture. It seemed likely, as in Limbo—what seemed to be the Catholic version of <em>barzakh</em>—Dante included Ibn Sina, or Avicenna, amongst his collection of non-Christian figures he deemed too admirable for hell.</p><p>For several roaming decades, their time in Renaissance Italy was a welcome break from the constant travel, where they could pick up soothing jobs in the thriving arts, rather than fight skirmishes, wars, and assassins. Andromache ended up becoming a favorite of a Medici, and her and Quynh traveled with members of the family.</p><p>Yusuf and Nicolò tried to get to know as many of the artists be them poets, sculptors, painters or architects, a chance to finally settle down and write the poetry he’s had in his heart for centuries, and learn to paint from the masters.</p><p>To his aggravation, Yusuf had never gotten to learn how to draw or paint people. Unlike Christians, who depicted God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary and countless saints as well as various important people in all mediums, it was prohibited in Islam to draw faces. It was either considered a prideful attempt to imitate what God had created or, it had carried the risk of idolatry. The ancients had worshipped statues of gods and deified historical figures, but they had also worshipped animals, or even men with animal traits and heads, so he saw no point in banning human figures. But he also saw no point in most of it.</p><p>And there was nothing more he wanted than to draw his friends, to make the fantasies in his mind tangible, seen by their eyes and others. He couldn’t wait to spend ages studying every facet of the human body, sketching all sorts of faces from various angles, and do as the artists of Italy did now, depict them as gods of antiquity. Andromache as Minerva, Quynh as Diana and Nicolò as Apollo.</p><p>Aside from the resurgence of love for Classical theology, there was a puzzling amount of men like them, half-out in the open. It was still illegal, but the amount of homoerotic art of historical, mythological and biblical figures was astounding.</p><p>When he found that he could shamelessly dedicate his work to Nicolò, even read aloud in gatherings, he enjoyed translating his poems back and forth from Arabic and Italian. It was easy due to Arabic poetry’s similarity with the Pertarchan structure, he mostly wrote <em>ghazal</em>, poems indulging in describing the beauty of one’s love.</p><p>But once he finished the first painting he deemed worthy of showing to others—Nicolò as Apollo with a saintly halo of sun rays—Nicolò was requested to be a model for others, namely by the one they called the divinely-inspired, Michelangelo.</p><p>And Michelangelo may have been brilliant, but he was, for lack of a better word, an asshole. His rival Leonardo da Vinci was nicer, but he was a disaster, he rarely finished any of his ideas or the commissions he would drunkenly ramble about to them. He also wanted to have Nicolò pose for him, but like most of his projects, that never came to pass.</p><p>In all their time together, Yusuf had never had eyes for anyone else, and how could he? Nicolò was not just someone he had centuries of shared history, intimacy and love with, he was, in his eyes, the most beautiful man in the world.</p><p>It seemed that others shared his view, as in their artist circuit, more and more asked for him to pose for their portraits, wishing to depict him as heroic figures or gods or, to their amusement, as saints.</p><p>There was something deeply ironic about Nicolò, the former priest, being depicted as a very pretty, half-naked Saint John the Baptist.</p><p>Yusuf was happy that Nicolò was enjoying himself, being fawned over and getting the praise he deserves, but he couldn’t help the discomfort in his lower gut that tensed whenever someone reached to touch him, even if it was to adjust his pose.</p><p>He didn’t know how long he could handle sitting in studios, watching students sketch his lover’s naked body, and have egoistic artists make demands of him in varying states of undress or having him stand for hours while they went over every inch of his bare flesh.</p><p>Swallowing his irritation, he would take a seat and practice his own artistic development. Or join them in sketching Nicolò and fight what stirred at the sight of him, which wasn’t limited to jealousy but an urge to run his tongue down the line that stretched from his nape to the base of his spine.</p><p>It was a shame sometimes that their marks didn’t last. He’d love to see the artists’ faces when Nicolò showed up with scratches down his back, bite-marks on his shoulder, and handprints on his ass, all born from how hard Yusuf squirmed beneath him the night before.</p><p>“What is it?” Nicolò asked him as they were walking back from Michelangelo’s studio one night. He had been commissioned to paint the Sistine Chapel by Pope Julius II, and wanted to base some of the many, many men that would grace the ceiling on Nicolò. He had been requested to use appropriate Christian imagery, but Michelangelo, ever the stubborn jackass, had selected scenes from the Old Testament and almost all would contain Classic art-amounts of nakedness.</p><p>The Pope was going to have a stroke.</p><p>“What is what?” Yusuf hummed, throwing a limp arm over Nicolò's shoulders and brushing a kiss to his cheek. The night was cool, the stars were half-hidden by wispy grey clouds, and the moon was waning, the city was still relatively awake at this hour, windows open and establishments filling the air with muffled noise.</p><p>“You’ve been in a contemplative mood lately, and you seem upset.”</p><p>“I’m not.”</p><p>Nicolò aimed a skeptical look at him. “You should know that after all these years I know every tell in your face, and I know something’s bothering you.”</p><p>“It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”</p><p>“All the more reason to tell me.” Nicolò pressed in closer, nuzzling his nose against Yusuf’s rough face. “I could use a giggle after hours of stiff standing, I don’t know how most of these models handle it.”</p><p>“They’re paid, or they’re getting something else out of it. You know, painters usually use their mistresses and lovers, or prostitutes as their inspiration.”</p><p>Nicolò slowed his pace, looking up at him. “So, that’s it.”</p><p>“What’s it?” he said innocently.</p><p>“You’re upset that some of them find me desirable?”</p><p>“No!” Yusuf denied, a little too loud. “They’d be blind not to.”</p><p>“But?”</p><p>Yusuf grumbled his grievances.</p><p>Nicolò cupped his ear. “What was that?”</p><p>“I said I don’t like the way they look at you, salivating like dogs. I fear what they might do if I weren’t there.”</p><p>“Aww, are you worried about my virtue, not that I have any left thanks to you,” he said jokingly. “You do remember that I know thirty different ways to kill a man, right?”</p><p>Yusuf groaned. “That’s not what I mean. I just, I don’t want—I feel like—”</p><p>For someone who was usually so good with his words, Yusuf felt like his tongue was tied in nautical knots.</p><p>Nicolò faced him, walking backwards. “If you’re not worried about them being attracted to or inappropriate with me, then what is it?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>He didn’t look convinced.</p><p>“Beppe, be honest with me.” Nicolò caught one of the defined curls in his hair, spared from frizz by the scented oil Yusuf had been experimenting with, and rolled it between his fingers. Nicolò's own hair was past his shoulders, now in a ponytail with a few shorter locks escaping their tie at the front. “I’m the last person to judge you.”</p><p>Yusuf felt himself smiling sadly at that, something he had said to Nicolò way back in Jerusalem when they had first spoken.</p><p>“Well?” Nicolò urged.</p><p>“Some of them act as if you’re available to them, disregard our relationship, and are brazen in their pursuit, I fear that they will take you away from me.”</p><p>Nicolò's shoulders shook as the sound of wheezing preceded his rasping laugh, “Are you being serious?”</p><p>Yusuf looked away, feeling his ears burn. “You said you wouldn’t judge.”</p><p>“I’m not. Hey, hey, look at me.” Nicolò gripped a handful of his hair, making him face him, grip so tight it almost ripped a moan from his lips. “You think I’d ever leave you?”</p><p>Yusuf tried avoiding his eyes. “It’s been centuries, you’ve bound to have gotten sick of me. Many get tired of the same person within mere years, let alone centuries. And even if you don’t leave, you might want to do what Andromache and Quynh do, see others, share others…”</p><p>“Why would I? Where are you getting this from? Did someone say something to you about me?”</p><p>“They don’t have to,” he said, voice shaking. “You have options here, your pick of men who weren’t available to you before, I’m not your only choice anymore. There’s no reason to keep to my bed and withstand my touch as the only man you can have.”</p><p>Nicolò’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. “Have you been possessed by a jinni, because you sound like you’ve lost your mind.”</p><p>“Nico, it took a century to get you to sodomize me!” Yusuf threw his hands up. “And it started to feel like it was less about God and more about you not wanting me.”</p><p>A spasm went through Nicolò, a full-body cringe of distaste. “Do you have to use that word? And you know that it’s not true.”</p><p>“What else am I suppose to call it? And how was I supposed to feel when it took random men minutes to decide to bed one another but it took you years.”</p><p>“I already told you, it was because I didn’t want to hurt you, and because I couldn’t break the association that it was what men did to their slaves. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would want this until I tried it myself.”</p><p>Yusuf vividly remembered the first time he mounted Nicolò, the noises he’d made were <em>obscene</em>. “You killed me, a lot, remember? Being stabbed with your sword hurt a lot more than being impaled with your cock ever could.”</p><p>“I know I killed you, and not a day goes by that I don’t hate myself for it!” he nearly yelled, face flushed, voice cracking. “Are you sick of me? Is that it? You want to pawn me off one of these men and go find one that will be easier to deal with in bed?”</p><p>“No! Not even close!” Yusuf gripped at his clothes with desperation in case he moved away. “How could I be? You’re all I ever wanted and always will be.”</p><p>“And you think I’m not lucky to not just have found you and but keeping you alongside me?” Nicolò pulled his hair gently, urging him to raise his face and meet his eyes. “Destiny brought us together, and for good reason. No one, no matter how beautiful or interesting, could ever come close to you, or what you mean to me. Also, most of the men we socialize with are sub-par, but you, even when you are covered in blood and grime, fill me with enough desire to madden an entire village.”</p><p>Yusuf let out a watery laugh, breathing easier. “I’m sorry for doubting you then.”</p><p>Nicolò moved in, whispering, “You should be.”</p><p>“It’s just, you seem so happy with all their eyes on you.” He knew he sounded needy and pathetic, but he needed to get all of this out before it killed him. “I just wanted to be sure that I hadn’t trapped you with me, giving you no choice but to be my lover.”</p><p>“I’m happy because it’s the only time people have found something worth praising in me, have you thought about it?” Nicolò let the air out through his nose in one long puff, calming. “You are more cultured, you fit among these people easier with your affinity for the arts, aptitude for numbers, and education, but I have no such talents. I was afraid I’d be shut out, have to watch you go around, engaging with people, making friends and admirers, and I’d be off to the side like in Athens, Constantinople, Tehran, Shangdu and Kiev. I’ve always been the least interesting among us, and for once I feel…I feel…”</p><p>His chest felt too tight, like his ribs were collapsing. “What? How do you feel?”</p><p>“Worthy of you,” he said, doubt entering his eyes. “Everyone wondered what you saw in me, as a companion or lover, but now, here, it makes sense. We are just like every artist and muse in this land, and I finally fit into your life.”</p><p>Yusuf surged forward, catching Nicolò's face and kissing him with ravenous intent. When he pulled back, heaving, Nicolò looked as he did the first time in the tent in Jerusalem, his eyes closed, mouth half-open, soft in his hold like his thoughts had been muted.</p><p>“You have always fit into my life because you are my life. You think I would have been able to go on like this, without you? Even if I had eventually found our friends, it would have been still been agony,” he said, voice trembling. “And you have always been my muse.”</p><p>Nicolò's eyes fluttered open, his expression tender. “Always?”</p><p>“You inspire me with your hope, your kindness, your willingness to believe in good outcomes, and above all, your love for others. If anything, it’s I who doesn’t deserve you,” he breathed against his lips. “But I’ll never not be grateful that you chose me.”</p><p>“You chose me, you forgave me for my involvement in the Crusades, and for—”</p><p>He cut him off with a harder kiss, feeling Nicolò's nose against his cheek. “The true ones to blame for those wars are those in power who ordered thousands to march to their deaths far away from home and slaughter innocents. You were a pawn, and it’s all over now.” Yusuf angled his head down, pressing their foreheads together. “Besides, it brought us together, and I’ll never regret that.”</p><p>Someone from a balcony above them whistled at them suggestively, bringing them back to their surroundings. They looked to find four young men, clearly inebriated and in varying states of undress, calling for them to join them.</p><p>Laughing, they waved up at them then began moving back down the street, arms around one another. As they entered their home, Nicolò pressed his lips to Yusuf’s ear and said, “I’m tired, why don’t you do all the work for a change?”</p><p>It was an olive branch, and while Yusuf had his preferences, he was not going to turn down feeling those thighs pressed against his sides or watching Nicolò’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he arched off the bed in ecstasy.</p><p>Now that was an image he couldn’t wait to paint.</p><p>While he couldn’t send Nicolò to the artists displaying Yusuf’s handiwork, the euphoric expression he had on his face the entire next day was enough of a statement.</p><p>After that night, Nicolò seemed to take greater care in emphasizing to others that Yusuf was his, hanging all over him at parties. Then when he got his own chance to be territorial, he took it, which made Yusuf feel a rush of delight.</p><p>The day he had trimmed his beard to a dark stubble, Leonardo da Vinci had gripped Yusuf’s chin, angling his head as he spoke to other artists grouped around them, praising his profile and the layout of his features with mathematical detail.</p><p>Nicolò had brought his hand down on the inside of Leonardo’s elbow, releasing his grip, replacing it with his own hand, reverently stroking Yusuf’s jaw. “I keep telling him he’s handsome, but he won’t believe me, insists on hiding behind his beard.”</p><p>“I’m not hiding anything,” he denied, flushing.</p><p>“You’re too humble,” Nicolò said dreamily, thumbing Yusuf’s bottom lip. “If the gods of old existed, I’d be fighting both Venus and Apollo for you.”</p><p>Nicolò liked to claim he had no artistic bone in his body, but some days he was struck with inspiration that made Yusuf’s heart flutter. He needed to remember and write down all of them to show him that he had the potential, a spark to be cultivated.</p><p>Later, Andromache and Quynh joined them after a few years apart, they gave them a tour of the new places being built. Andromache took a liking to Michelangelo’s work, calling his sculptures ‘victims of Medusa’.</p><p>Quynh was in awe of the scope and detail of the place of the work in the Vatican, and when they took them to Florence, to continue the tour of his work, Andromache’s focus went somewhere else.</p><p>“This Michelangelo has never seen a naked woman in his life, has he?” She eyed a sculpture of Night on a Medici tomb in particular, where a reclining young woman sat opposite the man representing Day. “Those breasts are in the wrong place, and that’s not how they sit.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t know,” said Yusuf, coming to stand behind her, following her line of sight. “And neither would he.”</p><p>“Couldn’t he have just hired a prostitute or his mistress to pose for him?” Andromache asked.</p><p>“His ‘mistress’ is probably one of his students, the same goes for Leonardo,” Nicolò said in between laughs.</p><p>Quynh hooked her arms around Nicolò's shoulders, rocking them side to side, escalating his laughter. “Oh, so you two have been in good company while we were gone?”</p><p>The petty, jealous part of Yusuf reared its ugly head. “I wouldn’t say that.”</p><p>Nicolò leaned back and mumbled, “He means he wants to shove Michi’s paintbrushes down his throat.”</p><p>Quynh threw her head back and cackled, the sound echoing off the high ceiling.</p><p>“Seriously, they look like someone stuck a pair of rotting pomegranates under her skin,” Andromache tutted, gripping her own breasts and jiggling them for emphasis, making them all laugh.</p><p>At one party, a major painter’s student asked him what he would wish to be depicted as, for the sake of practice, and he pulled Yusuf closer, including him in the conversation, almost like he knew he was getting self-conscious.</p><p>“Giuseppe and I’s favored figures in the classics are Achilles and Patroclus. Do you think you could find a concept for such a topic?”</p><p>The young painter’s eyes grew wide, going back and forth between them. “That’s brilliant. Would your friend mind doing us—I mean being either of them?”</p><p>Yusuf was surprised, he was a hobby-painter and primarily a poet, none had ever asked him to pose for them before.</p><p>“Are you sure about this, Nico?”</p><p>Nicolò grinned at him, a devious glint in those beautiful eyes. “Beppe, of course I am, I’m dying to see you in ancient armor.”</p><p>If only he could find a recreation of such a thing for them dress up in.</p><p>Later after they had posed for the initial sketch and gone home to relax in their apartment, Nicolò with his favorite stray cat on his lap by the window, while Yusuf lovingly sketched his profile, and the shadows illuminated by the moonlight, he asked, “Don’t you think that was a little obvious of us, Achilles and Patroclus?”</p><p>Nicolò huffed, scratching under the calico’s chin, he’d dubbed her Elena, after their old, old friend. “Everyone knows we’re lovers, we just can’t state it plainly.”</p><p>“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed.</p><p>“Are you done? Can I see?”</p><p>Yusuf hugged the paper to his chest. As much as he got a rebellious rush out of drawing human figures, he hadn’t shown Nicolò most of his art, none of it ever felt complete or perfect enough to share with other eyes, let alone his. “It’s not good.”</p><p>Nicolò rolled his eyes, holding out his hand. “As if you could create anything worth less than gold.”</p><p>“I haven’t been drawing for long, I was limited to calligraphy, patterns and abstracts, remember?”</p><p>“You are a born artist with an eye for detail just as I have the aim of a hawk.”</p><p>Flushing, he handed the sketchpad over. Nicolò's brows rose and Yusuf began to sweat.</p><p>“Is my nose really that big?”</p><p>Yusuf spluttered, trying to snatch back the sketch but Nicolò kept it out of reach, fast enough without disturbing the cat. He kept looking at it and feeling up his face. “It’s so life-like, like it’s about to turn its head and look at me. Shame the effort was wasted on my face.”</p><p>“Nico!” He got up, taking the sketch. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”</p><p>Nicolò appeared uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to demean your effort, it’s just a bit jarring. I haven’t seen any of the work they’ve asked me to sit for so I always wondered what I really looked like and…I can’t say I’m pleased with it.”</p><p>“You’re beautiful, to me and to many others, we’ve discussed this.” He stroked his hair, then his face. “I was afraid you were going to get seduced out from under my nose, remember?”</p><p>Nicolò's cheeks turned pink. “I know, it’s just my eyes and mouth look so stern, and my nose—”</p><p>He leaned in and kissed his nose. “You have a profile worthy of an emperor, that’s why everyone here is in awe of you, you remind them of the Classical figures they’ve regained appreciation for.”</p><p>“You won’t maintain that thought when you see that painting of us, I’m going to regret being depicted alongside you because it will be like comparing a mule to a stallion.”</p><p>Yusuf stroked Nicolò's face then gripped his chin, tilted his face up. “Stop it. We are different, we look different, neither of us is inherently inferior, it’s like comparing the sun to the Moon, and you are my moon.”</p><p>Nicolò beamed up at him, his crooked grin making his body grow warmer. “You know you’re the finest specimen of man, you modest bastard.”</p><p>“I’m mediocre at best, it’s why I prefer hiding behind a thick beard.”</p><p>“So, you admit you hide? I wish you wouldn’t, I love your bare face, and I think anyone who picks me over you is blind.”</p><p>“It might be because you only have eyes for me.”</p><p>Nicolò pulled him down into a quick, hard kiss. “You’re damn right I do.”</p><p>The finished work was indeed flattering and stunning, and the painting of Nicolò as Achilles cradling Yusuf’s Patroclus was a moving image. He just hoped it never came true and they only maintained the legendary, battle-born lover aspect of their story.</p><p>Except, despite all their discussions of the tale, it hadn’t been them that were Achilles and Patroclus.</p><p>It was Andromache and Quynh.</p><p>The biggest mistake they had made was venturing into the New World after narrowly escaping the witch-hunts of Protestant Europe.</p><p>After a stint in newly-Catholic Spain, where Yusuf almost got turned into a new San Jose for the miracle of ‘resurrecting’ Nicolò after he died in a duel, and they had remedied not meeting the poets Omar Khayyam and Dante by befriending Miguel de Cervantes, who took a shine to Andromache and picked her brain on the female characters in his work-in-progress <em>Don Quixote</em>. Yusuf tried telling him that Zoraida, the name of a Moorish character, was not an actual Arabic name—sounding like a mix of Zubaida and Soraya—but Cervantes brushed him off</p><p>After Spain, they took a ship up to England, where they remained for the duration of Elizabeth I’s reign.</p><p>Yusuf had a great time befriending William Shakespeare, brainstorming plays with him while reviewing each other’s work, but he didn’t appreciate his contemporary, Christopher Marlowe, brazenly trying to seduce him. When he told Marlowe that he had Nicolò, Marlowe’s response was ‘bring him along, my bed is big enough’ and he had to stop himself from shoving an ink bottle down his throat.</p><p>He was almost certain that Shakespeare was writing down some of the things he expressed to Nicolò on their nights-in during the plague. But there was no use in contesting his authorship, it wasn’t like he could openly publish his works without formally establishing an identity that could puzzle historians. Last he needed was for people to pick apart the work of Joseph Kaye-Sawney, and track him down to their next country by virtue of similarity, or worse, be accused of plagiarizing his own work.</p><p>Once Elizabeth died, people expected the end of the Tudor line meant a reunification with the Pope, but King James did the unthinkable, he remained a Protestant and, to Nicolò's shock, translated the bible into English.</p><p>When Catholic-versus-Protestant strife got too much for them in England, they decided to finally head for the last place they hadn’t traveled from top to bottom.</p><p>In retrospect, it was the worst thing they could have done. They should have gone back down to France, instead they crossed the Atlantic and reached New England in the midst of its witch-burning hysteria.</p><p>But when Nicolò and Yusuf were jailed for being suspected pirates, they were separated from the women for weeks.</p><p>By the time they escaped and tracked them down, they had found only Andromache chained up in a dungeon.</p><p>They were too late to save Quynh. Having given up on hanging her before burning her body, the witch-hunters had locked her in an iron box and thrown her in the sea.</p><p>She was stuck, drowning over and over for an eternity and they would never find her.</p><p>In her fury and grief, Andromache snapped and went on a vengeful rampage. No matter where they went, or how long they tried tracking her down, she had effectively vanished.</p><p>Yusuf feared that she had thrown herself into the water, attempting to scope it all out in search for Quynh’s iron coffin. Last they heard were rumors of a woman who hijacked a pirate ship and was using it to search for ‘buried treasure in the Atlantic Ocean’.</p><p>In their misery and mourning, broken down by losing the only family they’d known for centuries, Yusuf led the grief-stricken Nicolò back to Europe, where they finally went to Genova.</p><p>Nicolò took him to where his home used to be, the layout had changed, the house having been knocked down with others built in its place. The church Nicolò had worked in was still there, just larger.</p><p>Standing in the foyer, gripping Yusuf’s hand, he said in a strangled voice “Before you I loved only one other person.”</p><p>Heart pounding slowly but intensely, Yusuf licked his dry lips and asked, “Who?”</p><p>Nicolò looked at him, eyelids puffy and reddening. “My sister, Caterina.”</p><p>He squeezed Nicolò's hand. “Tell me? Everything? Anything?”</p><p>“She…she was all I had. Our mother left when I was nine, I don’t know where or why, and our father was so fixated on advancing in society, to shirk the shame of being born a bastard, he wanted to marry us to people could help him achieve that. We didn’t want to.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I was nineteen, Caterina was sixteen, so sweet, so loving, she wanted to be a baby-nurse, wanted to go study under physicians, then have her own children, said she’d name her firstborn after me,” Nicolò said, stuffy from oncoming tears. “Then, out of nowhere, she got very sick and we couldn’t tell what was wrong. My father blamed me, said God was punishing her for me being a disgraceful son, for not wanting the girl he picked out, for being bad the job he wanted me to inherit and he—<em>he knew.</em> I don’t know how, but he knew what I was.” He gasped a sob, eyes wet. “When she died, I joined the priesthood, to repent, to ask God to spare her in death, to be sorry for what I may have caused. And when the Crusades started I had to go, not just for what the Pope promised, but <em>because I wanted someone to kill me.</em> Because, had I done it myself, I’d be twice as damned.”</p><p>Yusuf felt a stab of rage towards a man long-dead, whose cruelty still left open wounds, but he also felt his heart ache for Nicolò and his sister. Yusuf may have struggled with his upbringing and surrounding society, but his father had loved him, encouraged him to be a free-thinker, accepting and educated, his siblings were alive and well last he saw them, and so was his best friend.</p><p>But Nicolò had had no one back home, nothing to live for until they met.</p><p>He wiped the tears off his face. “It wasn’t your fault.”</p><p>“I know that now, it doesn’t make it hurt any less. That I get so many chances to live again and she had to die so young.” His lower lip trembled, eyes red. “What happened to Quynh just brought it all back. She didn’t deserve this.” He looked to the side of the church, at a statue of the Madonna and Child. “Neither of them deserved this.”</p><p>It explained so much about Nicolò in retrospect, his insistence on referring to their friends as ‘our sisters’ long before they met them, his tendency to attach himself to one woman at a time, doting on and comforting her. Temporary friends, sellers at the market or maids they employed, until he met Quynh. One by one had taken the space Caterina had left behind.</p><p>Until Quynh, who should have been a new permanent fixture in their lives, had been ripped away from them, leaving a hole in all their souls.</p><p>They spent the next century traveling down the peninsula, until they reached Malta again, all the while waiting for Andromache to come find them and hopefully bring Quynh with her.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't forget to leave a comment! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧</p><p>You can follow me here on <a href="http://lucyclairedelune.tumblr.com"><b>Tumblr</b></a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They are now in the Early Modern era, not limited to the Napoleonic Wars, the Greek War of Independence &amp; the Egyptian-Ottoman Wars, the Victorian era and befriending figures such as Byron, Mary Shelley and Oscar Wilde.</p><p>Also, <i>that time</i> in Malta.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I changed Booker's backstory a little to explain how he met the others. And the rating for this fic went up with this chapter because 👀</p><p>PS. The Victorian scene was based on <a href="https://hawkaye.tumblr.com/post/626490234864025600/isnt-this-what-you-always-dreamed-of">this gifset of Luca Marinelli</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They remained moving back and forth across coastal cities, one return to Egypt nearly ended in Yusuf murdering the current ruler appointed by the Ottomans. The land had not just been broken by the Turks but faced several famines and a plague, amplifying his depression at the state of things.</p><p>All they’d bear to hear about the New World was the imports that varied their dishes; Tomatoes and the established art form of pasta that elevated Italian cuisine, and the potatoes that became a favorite of Yusuf’s, a root vegetable that was delicious cooked in any way.</p><p>That place could sink like Atlantis for all they cared.</p><p>“Remember when the world ended with the Maghreb?” he asked Nicolò one night, on their fourth return to Malta. The place had changed a lot since their first time there, developed its own hybrid language, and the appearance of the people there ranged from Yusuf’s features to Nicolò's.</p><p>Nicolò, toweling the bathwater from his shoulder-length hair, hummed sleepily. “I thought it ended with the Mongol Empire?”</p><p>Yusuf was lying on his side on their bed, bone-tired from a day of farming in the scalding summer sun. “No, before that. Back when we first met, our world ranged from one end of the Mediterranean to the next, the Maghreb and the Mishriq, it’s even in the names: ‘where the sun sets’ and ‘where the sun rises’. The land was even called Anatolia and the Levant due to it being the easternmost on most maps.”</p><p>Nicolò snorted softly. “We knew Persia and India were past the Levant.”</p><p>“But it was never a factor in our lives, and it was so far that that Columbus thought it’d be easier to reach it by going through the Atlantic. He thought he’d loop all the way around and traverse nothing but empty waters till he found the Mughals.”</p><p>The mention of Cristoforo Colombo, or Columbus, tended to unsettle Nicolò, who’d claimed plenty of unsavory Roman emperors and popes, but not his reported fellow Genoan. He liked to rationalize that ‘that demon’ belonged to Spain more than Italy.</p><p>He knew that Nicolò saw the conquest of the New World as a descendant of the Crusades. Yusuf wondered if this was what happened to his ancestors, and the people of the Maghreb and the Levant—Egyptians, Numidians, Phoenicians, Canaanites—their land, languages, cultures and religions broken down and supplanted by those of the invaders from Rome then Arabia and now Turkey.</p><p>Nicolò crawled onto the bed, dropping across from him, drowsy. “It must be like when we went east with Marco Polo. So many lands and peoples we had no idea existed, like Quynh’s people…”</p><p>He stopped, mouth wobbling and Yusuf’s heart broke all over again. The loss of Quynh and Andromache’s disappearance still hurt like a deep cut, never properly healed. But ever since he decided to leave his family behind he had made a conscious decision not to get attached to anyone but Nicolò.</p><p>Unfortunately, Nicolò couldn’t manage that level of detachment. He was always too eager to make friends, to connect with people, to dote on and fuss about others to the point that he memorized their body language, able to pick out Yusuf’s mood from a slight shift in his eyes.</p><p>“I miss them so much,” he rasped, like he couldn’t breathe. “I can’t stand what happened, even after all this time.”</p><p>It didn’t take long for the dam to break within Yusuf, and he reached over, pulling Nicolò to his chest, kissing his forehead then the tears off his cheeks while his own boiled his eyes, trailing down his face like rivers of molten lava. “I miss them too, so much. I miss how happy we all were, how we were a family.”</p><p>In truth, losing Quynh and Andromache was a thousand times worse than outliving his family, and the unknown fate of Kayvan, Vartan, Eleni and Anastasia in Constantinople, put together. It hurt worse because he knew those people would one day die, be it from violence, disease or old age, but they were immortals, forever roaming the earth untouched by time or permanent death.</p><p>But Andromache and Quynh had been dealt a fate worse than death.</p><p>“I know it’s selfish, to make their suffering about us, but I can’t stop thinking,” Nicolò murmured. “What if it had been us? What if I had lost you? What would I do?”</p><p>“Let’s hope we never have to find out,” he said, stroking his face, heart swollen to painful proportions.</p><p>Nicolò turned, facing the door, and Yusuf wrapped himself around him, arm hugging his waist, legs hooked together, and face buried in his nape, hoping, wishing, praying that he would never have to know what it was like to sleep without him.</p><hr/><p>After living out their allotted ‘lifespan’ in Malta, they finally went to France where they remained until Napoleon di Buonaparte rose to power.</p><p>Now going by Nicholas Genovesi and Joséph Alcaïsani, a Corsican marksman and an Egyptian translator respectively, they were drafted into the French army thanks to Nicolò's proficiency with firearms, a welcome departure from centuries of archery, to train the soldiers.</p><p>Nicolò's hair was now just past his ears and Yusuf’s was close-cropped to fit under the hats of their uniforms, they were both clean-shaven, and he had to admit, the uniforms were as impractical as they were stylish.</p><p>Yusuf had had hope that Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt would free them of Ottoman rule, but there was no such luck, Napoleon was aiming to ask for the Ottoman sultan’s help in fighting Russia.</p><p>Their downfall would come soon enough and Yusuf had to wait to see it.</p><p>It was somewhere on their doomed trip to Russia that someone came into camp, calling for Nicolò, telling him that his ‘crazy sister’ was here.</p><p>They couldn’t run out of their tent fast enough.</p><p>Andromache, in a mismatch of French and Russian uniforms, her hair in a blunt cut above her shoulders, was busy twisting a soldier’s arm when they arrived, berating him for trying to keep her out.</p><p>Once she spotted them, she released the poor soldier and Nicolò beat him to tackling her in a hug, kissing every part of her face and babbling at her in Greek.</p><p>When he pulled away, Yusuf approached with more caution, seeking out her eyes as he set a hand on her arm. “Where have you been?”</p><p>“Around,” she deadpanned, not angry, but like she had given up. “At sea, mostly.”</p><p>She hadn’t found Quynh.</p><p>Like a ripped suture, his misery had bled out all over again, and he hugged her tightly. “I’m so sorry. We should have been there, we should have done something to stop them. I…” his voice cracked under the strained pressure of his choked up sobs.</p><p>Andromache sniffled and held him tighter. “It’s not your fault. I’m not going to let you blame yourself for what those monsters did to her.”</p><p>“We should have never gone there,” Nicolò said, sounding stifled and congested. “I should have known it would be like that there, the people of New England were just like the fanatical Protestants in Germany.”</p><p>Andromache cupped his face, eyes growing sadder, mouth downturned. “I’ve gone through all the possible ways we could have avoided it. Dwelling on what could have been is not going to bring her back. I just hope that at this point she really is dead.”</p><p>Yusuf felt like the air was sucked out of his lungs, rasping, “Andromache…”</p><p>The only time they had ever brought up the possibility of permanent death was when they had told him and Nicolò about Lykon, a fellow immortal who had died centuries before, never to resurrect. Yusuf spent at least three years painfully paranoid that any death could be their last, that they had a limited amount of resurrections, until Quynh reminded him that Andromache was older than the Mycenaeans and had died enough times to be venerated as a living warrior-god.</p><p>But to wish for her love to become mortal, even if it would spare her the unending agony from eternal drowning, a fate out of Dante’s hell, was just hard to stomach.</p><p>“Andromache, if that is the case, then that means we could never find her.”</p><p>“And we never will,” she said with finality.</p><p>“You don’t know that,” Nicolò said. “We could still search, we could find her.”</p><p>“If we haven’t found remains of Troy, what makes you think we’ll find her?” Andromache snapped, eyes bulging, cheeks wobbling with tension until she reeled her feelings back in. “Just. Just drop it.”</p><p>Ruffling Nicolò's hair, her face smoothing into a stoic expression. “I’ve already thought this through. If she is still down there, then I wish for her to be free of our curse.”</p><p>“Curse?” Nicolò wheezed, gripping her retreating hand. “We’re not cursed.”</p><p>“It sure feels like it,” she said bitterly, eyes on the ground.</p><p>After sharing a look, Yusuf and Nicolò enveloped her in a hug. She was stiff at first but soon softened, letting herself be held.</p><p>The moment was broken when someone yelled, “Genovesi!”</p><p>A higher-ranking soldier had arrived into the scene. “Who is this woman? What is going on?”</p><p>“This is my big sister Adrienne,” Nicolò sniffled, rubbing at his eyes despite the small smile, hooking arm around Andromache.</p><p>“And my fiancée,” Yusuf added, to dispel any ideas the on-lookers might have. “We’ve known each other since childhood.”</p><p>“She’s been in Russia for a few years, I sent her a letter a while back, asking if she had any information that could help the Emperor’s cause.”</p><p>The soldier eyed them, he was tall with dirty-blond hair, a bulbous nose, and close-set blue eyes. Yusuf recognized him as one of the learned men, whose job was to write Napoleon’s orders and messages and remember important details, a memory that had earned him the nickname Le Livre—<em>the Book</em>.</p><p>“Well, in that case she’s going to have to come with me,” said Le Livre, ushering them forward.</p><p>During their talk with Napoleon, Andromache tried cautioning against attacking Russia in the winter, but he was set to be an emperor of a united Europe and nothing would stop him.</p><p>The man, Lieutenant Sébastien Le Livre—real last name Giraud—did prove to be an interesting companion. He made no obnoxious comments about Andromache dressing in uniform and joining them, and laughed and hooted when she snapped the fingers of an infantryman who tried to grope her.</p><p>Later Sébastien started referring to her as ‘our Atalante’,which earned him their fondness, invoking the huntress who, in some sources, joined Jason and the Argonauts on their journey east.</p><p>Andromache was likely old enough to have met Atalanta, chances were that she was based on her.</p><p>Near a campfire, the winter beginning to set in, Nicolò and Andromache were drunkenly dancing with the men who sang and clapped to boost morale, and Yusuf sat by the fire with Sébastien, sketching in a journal.</p><p>“You’re pretty good,” he said. “My eldest wants to be an artist, do you have any advice I can pass on to him?”</p><p>Yusuf tucked his pencil behind his ear, turning to face Sébastien. “Practice regularly, don’t expect perfection from the first or even the twentieth time, and keep your old work to see how much you’ve progressed. Find something you love to look at the most and specialize in that before taking on other topics.”</p><p>“Something you love to look at.” Sébastien jerked his head towards the dancers. “Like Nicholas?”</p><p>Yusuf felt considerably colder. “What are you implying?”</p><p>Sebastian angled the journal his way, turning the pages, finding plenty of small depictions of Nicolò, the most current of him and Andromache dancing. “You look at him a lot, and it’s paid off in these drawings. You must love him, because I can’t see what’s so arresting about him.”</p><p>Yusuf would be offended if he didn’t feel cornered. It may have been the army, and men were inevitably going to pair up, but it was one thing to help each other relieve tension and another to be together. Either way, it was still not best to be blatant. “Are you going to tell the general?”</p><p>Sebastian frowned at him. “Tell him what?”</p><p>“That I’m…”</p><p>“Immune to the charms of women?” Sébastien laughed. “Does he know? Are you really engaged to his sister or is that a lie?”</p><p>Yusuf grew very tense, gripping the edges of his journal. “Why are you asking me all this? Do you think this is funny?”</p><p>Sebastian’s frown deepened. “I’m trying to be friendly, getting us to talk about our families and such.” His eyes slowly widened. “I’m doing the opposite, aren’t I?”</p><p>“You’re giving me mixed signals, yes.”</p><p>Sébastien laughed, stroking his beard. “Sorry, I was just trying to be transparent with you, so you don’t have to keep lying and dancing around topics with me when we talk. It’s easier when we both know we know.”</p><p>It was Yusuf’s turn to frown curiously. “Have you known someone like me before?”</p><p>He nodded. “My uncle Pierre and his ‘friend’ Jean, they pretty much raised me when my mother succumbed to consumption. I named my youngest for them.” He leaned in closer, secretive. “Between you and me, my wife still thinks they’re both my widower uncles. As much as I love her I don’t think she’d find the truth palatable.”</p><p>Ease overtook him, helping him relax. “Oh, that’s sweet. How many children do you have?”</p><p>He raised three fingers, beaming proudly. “Three boys, René, Etienne and Jean-Pierre. Do you have any family back where you’re from, Joséph?”</p><p>The thought elicited a visceral reaction in him, making him choke up. It had been over six-hundred years since he last saw his family, and by now the Al-Kaysani bloodline has no doubt died out, emigrated, or had long forgotten the ancestor who died in the Crusades.</p><p>It was almost like Yusuf was a ghost, lingering long after everyone had moved on.</p><p>“No, just Nicholas and Adrienne.”</p><p>Sébastien seemed to fill in his own gaps, nodding. “Choosing your own family is not an obvious choice, but it is a good one.”</p><p>Yusuf remembered bits of the conversation with their friends in Constantinople, his depressing thoughts about never having the families people took for granted, and he felt himself tearfully smiling. “You’re right, it is.”</p><p>Sébastien proved to be great company in their trip after that, ingratiating himself to Nicolò and becoming unlikely friends with Andromache.</p><p>It was almost too fateful when their attempt to invade the frozen wastes of Russia was, as Andromache warned, disastrous. Thousands of men and their horses froze to death, Sébastien among them.</p><p>Then, while Nicolò was trying to peel his stiff, dark fingers off his rifle, he sat upright with a gasp, color returning to his face, blood circulating, dry eyes staring at him, frost on his eyelashes. “What happened?”</p><p>“You are very lucky,” was all Nicolò said at the time, in case it was just that, luck.</p><p>But on their way back to France in defeat, they passed near Russia-allied territory in Prussia and lost more men in Napoleon’s bid to take control of Germany, Sébastien included.</p><p>Explaining to him that he was immortal in their camp in Dresden was not easy, as he refused to accept it, calling them delusional until Andromache stuck a dagger in his thigh.</p><p>In between his panicked screams and increasingly dirty insults, his wound sealed and he fainted. When he came to, he remained in a stunned daze.</p><p>“I suppose this is good,” he said. “I am assured to return to Marie-Thérèse and my children alive after all this is over.”</p><p>“I don’t think you should go back,” Andromache said.</p><p>“Why the hell not?”</p><p>“Because this age you’re at now.” She gestured up and down his body. “You’re going to be stuck like this forever, it won’t be long until they notice."</p><p>Sébastien refused to accept that, and it seemed the French were second to the Italians when it came to being stubborn.</p><p>When Napoleon’s campaign started to accumulate humiliating losses, and six nations allied against him, Nicolò and Yusuf decided to leave France. Andromache said she was heading to the Portuguese colony of Brazil, telling them she’d find them soon.</p><p>They told Sébastien if he changed his mind, they were planning on visiting the smaller countries of Western Europe, particularly the Francophone ones for a few years.</p><p>In England, they made the acquaintance of Lord Byron, who invited Yusuf to join him as he left to meet other writer friends in Geneva, Switzerland.</p><p>There he met the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley and his young ‘wife’ Mary. Then the Year Without a Summer happened, keeping them all locked inside going stir-crazy until Byron suggested they have a writing competition to pass the time and Mary had Nicolò tell her all about Italy, considering including an Italian love interest in her tale.</p><p>Nicolò, always on the look out for sister-figures, took a shine to Mary. That meant he deeply despised Percy.</p><p>During a drunken argument that broke out after Mary confided in him about her premature daughter’s death, Percy had the nerve to claim Nicolò comforting her meant they were having an affair.</p><p>Percy ended up shooting Nicolò in front of her.</p><p>Yusuf felt a rage so vile, so severe, he blacked out. When he came to he had beaten Percy bloody and Nicolò, his upper body in Mary’s lap, woke with a gasp, scaring her silent.</p><p>They decided to pass the whole thing off as the shot narrowly missing Nicolò, who dodged it and fell, and that Percy was so drunk, and concussed from Yusuf’s fists, that he bought the story of him hallucinating the hole in Nicolò's head.</p><p>Mary was sworn to secrecy. Then she had a horrible nightmare about someone inexplicably raising the dead through modern science and wrote <em>The Modern Prometheus</em>, or alternatively, <em>Frankenstein</em>.</p><p>“I think you traumatized the poor girl,” Yusuf said one night in their room as he read through her draft. “This is some deeply unsettling stuff.”</p><p>“Her shitbag adulterous ‘husband’ is the one who shot me.” Nicolò moved the papers around as he climbed into their bed. “Did you know he has a wife? How much do you bet I can make his death look like an accident? I bet Byron would help me.”</p><p>“Byron would do anything for you,” Yusuf mumbled, taking a sip from his whiskey. “He keeps making eyes at you.”</p><p>“He makes eyes at everyone, man, woman, his own half-sister.”</p><p>Yusuf almost ruined Mary’s manuscript with his spit-take, wheezing with uncomfortable laughter.<em> “His sister?”</em></p><p>Nicolò made a face. “How very Borgia of him, I know.”</p><p>As repulsive as the thought was, he couldn’t help laughing harder. “What depraved company have we found ourselves among?”</p><p>“The entertaining kind I hope.” Nicolò took one of the pages, skimming the words. “What did she call this? <em>Modern Prometheus?</em> Is this Frankenstein regrowing his organs like us?”</p><p>“I think it’s metaphorical, that Frankenstein is cobbling together a new species through some forbidden knowledge like how Prometheus made man from clay, and that the secret to life is like the fire he stole from Olympus.”</p><p>“Interesting. I wonder which ‘man is made of clay’ story came first, the Greek or the biblical?”</p><p>“Likely a much older common source, lost to time and undecipherable languages.”</p><p>“If only Andromache ever remembered any useful answers,” Nicolò sighed. “Do you think she could have influenced the story of Prometheus?”</p><p>Yusuf turned on his side, head propped up on his hand. “Could be. It’s fitting for us, an immortal being that grows back what’s damaged. What was the original metaphor you used way back when we met? The Ship of Theseus?”</p><p>Nicolò was surprised, yet pleased. “You remember that?”</p><p>“Of course I do. That was the moment my life changed for the better.”</p><p>“You’re an incurable romantic, you know that?”</p><p>He pulled Nicolò's head closer and kissed his hair. “Hard to cure when I am always exposed to your love.”</p><p>After Switzerland, they went back down to Genova then re-met with Byron and his latest mistress. It wasn’t long until they heard about the struggles in Greece where Yusuf couldn’t help resisting the urge to fight the Ottomans.</p><p>They set sail for Greece and joined the slightly splintered effort to overthrow their oppressors. Byron, swayed by Yusuf’s words, and a great amount of Greeks who urged him to fund their revolution, joined them in the fight.</p><p>It took years, but when the battle was done, Greece had gained its independence from Turkey. In the midst of celebrations with the locals, Yusuf felt elated, that they had somehow not just positively affected these people’s lives, but possibly their whole nation.</p><p>Nicolò seemed to have the same idea. “What if we could do this again?”</p><p>“Fight the Ottomans? Sure.”</p><p>Nicolò wrinkled his nose cutely. “No, I mean, help people fight. I know we’ve said before that whatever we do is pointless because we’re only two men, but what if we were wrong? What if we really can make a difference?”</p><p>“What do you mean, that we ally ourselves with certain people?”</p><p>Nicolò shrugged. “I mean if we see one side, or even one group, that could use our help at the time, we help, no allegiances required. Just what’s right at that time.”</p><p>Even after all these years and all they’d seen, he still had so much optimism left in him. It made Yusuf’s heart swell with pride.</p><p>He took Nicolò's hands in his. “If this is what you want to do, let’s do it.”</p><p>The smile Nicolò gave him could put the Moon to shame.</p><hr/><p>Yusuf got his wish when Egypt began to struggle with Turkey, launching into a war. It wasn’t entirely successful, leading into a second Egyptian-Ottoman war, in which France allied with Egypt.</p><p>One fun thing during their brief return to Egypt was they had learned from the locals that tangerines had been introduced to the country from Italy by a Youssef Afandi, and were dubbed <em>yousefi </em>in Arabic, or more colloquially in Egyptian, <em>yousafandi</em>.</p><p>Nicolò added that to their roster of nicknames, because, in a sense, <em>yousefi </em>meant ‘my Yusuf’. He had to say he preferred <em>‘my tangerine’</em> to the French <em>mon petit chou</em>. Who in the world wanted to be compared to a little cabbage?</p><p>It was when the Egyptian army met up with the French in the Levant that they were reunited with a grizzled Sébastien Le Livre.</p><p>“My wife died,” he said miserably, slouching their tent, taking a swig from a flask. “Do you know how often husbands outlive their wives?”</p><p>Yusuf tenderly touched his shoulder, aiming to take away the flask. “I’m so sorry, my friend.”</p><p>“She was right, Andromède—was it Andromède? She was right that I shouldn’t have gone back, men my age back home already have grey hair and can’t straighten their backs, and yet, I’m still forty.” He jerked the flask away, taking another gulp. “What am I going to do, Joséph?”</p><p>“I don’t know if I can tell you what to do or how to feel. It’s been so long for me, I can barely remember what my family even looked like.”</p><p>“You never said how old you really were.”</p><p>“Old,” he laughed awkwardly. “Younger than Andromache though.”</p><p>“And Nicholas?”</p><p>“We’re around the same age, we became immortal at the same time in the same place.”</p><p>He raised his thin brows. “When?”</p><p>“The First Crusade.”</p><p>Sébastien let out a low whistle. “So, you’re like Ruggiero and Bradamante, if they were both men.”</p><p>Yusuf had to suppress a cringe at that comparison. He’d heard enough downer stories about doomed interfaith and interethnic relationships, and read enough downer Arabic poetry about men yearning for Christian women, few like Dik al-Jinn reportedly got to convert and marry their muses. Dik al-Jinn also had a male lover who he ended up murdering—so did the Andalusian Al-Mu’tamid ibn Abbad now that he thought about it—and that hit a little to close to home for Yusuf.</p><p>Nicolò and he had read <em>Orlando furioso</em>, the tale Sébastien referred to, recently in its original Italian. It was all over the place, story-wise, but the appeal for him were the star-crossed romances between the Frankish female warrior Bradamante and the North African Ruggiero, who despite converting for and marrying her, didn’t live long.</p><p>That was one of the biggest fantasy aspects of the story, not counting the actual magic, sea monsters and Moon or the complete disregard for any historical or geographical accuracy. Converting out of Islam was punishable by death, but Yusuf supposed maybe this did occur a lot more often than he’d think, just not publicized.</p><p>Nicolò did have his moments of doubt, but he never tried to convince Yusuf. Some Christians did think him prime real-estate for conversion, or in some Muslims’ case, re-conversion. The latter approached him with either hostility or pity that was more about earning <em>thawab</em> at his expense than saving his soul.</p><p>“I guess Ruggiero and Bradamante is closer than Achilles and Patroclus,” said Yusuf. “At least they ended up together.”</p><p>Sébastien shrugged. “Honestly, the Crusades? That’s almost poetic.”</p><p>“What is poetic?”</p><p>“You being on stark opposite sides of a historic war, probably hating each other’s guts, then finding you were the only ones you wouldn’t outlive and had no choice but one another,” he said, waving a limp hand in vague gestures. “Or was it love at first sight?”</p><p>Nicolò re-entered the tent. “More like first stab.”</p><p>“Stab?”</p><p>Nicolò jerked a finger between them. “He killed me, then I resurrected and killed him.”</p><p>“Ouch. When did you decide you liked each other then?”</p><p>“After we killed each other a few more times, and he kidnapped me. We had a good talk about what we were and what to do now and left together.” Yusuf managed to snatch away the flask, closing and throwing it over his shoulder.</p><p>“So, that was it, you went from a passion for killing each other to rolling around in the sand?”</p><p>Nicolò let out a bark of laughter. “No, not even close. It took ages until we managed that.”</p><p>“Did you not know how to go about it or…?”</p><p>Nicolò flushed. “You’re awfully comfortable about this topic.”</p><p>“I ought to be, I was raised by two men who considered themselves married, and my insatiable curiosity led to a lot of invasive questions.”</p><p>Yusuf couldn’t resist laughing at that, imagining a tactless nine year-old Sébastien hassling his uncle and his 'friend' about the hows and whys of their relationship.</p><p>Nicolò worked his jaw, embarrassed. “We knew, we just weren’t ready for that.”</p><p>“I was,” Yusuf said, making Sébastien laugh soundlessly. “He used to be a priest, if that explains anything.”</p><p>“A priest!” Sébastien was laughing audibly now. “I always did wonder why a man would give up women and having children, but I suppose I have an answer now.”</p><p>Nicolò tried to stutter out a rebuttal but gave up when Sébastien started yawning. He was asleep within minutes, and as sad as his circumstance was, Yusuf was glad to have him back.</p><p>It took years of back and forth and not-quite independence in the end, but Egypt was effectively ruled by Muhammad Ali Pasha, who established a dynasty that set to developing and modernizing the country. Which was better than Yusuf could have hoped for.</p><p>That was when they decided it was time to move on again, and headed briefly back to Malta while Sébastien returned to France. He corresponded with them until his eldest son died and he had to leave his city to avoid suspicion due to his lack of aging.</p><p>Both him and Andromache found them there not long after and they expressed to them the idea of traveling, combining their years of fighting experience and history, and lending their help like mercenaries.</p><p>“What, like a freelance Praetorian Guard?” Andromache said between gulps of undiluted red wine and bites of baklava Nicolò had brought with him from Egypt.</p><p>“We’re more like the Ancient Guard,” said Nicolò, taking the bottle away. “The Old Guard.”</p><p>“How flattering,” said Sébastien, snatching the bottle to finish it himself. “Reminding us that we’re too old for this shit.”</p><p>“Shut up, you’re still in the toddler stage of immortality,” Yusuf said.</p><p>Sébastien rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you two already fought in enough wars? Why do you want more fighting?”</p><p>“It’s not the fighting, it’s what it achieves,” said Nicolò, brimming with passion. “We survive the impossible, could take on cases most would avoid, and could do so much to help people. We could do so much good for the world.”</p><p>When they remained quiet, Yusuf gave them a nudge, leaning forward, hands clasped. “So, what do you think?”</p><p>Sébastien shrugged, then they turned to Andromache with expectant stares.</p><p>“Why’re you all looking at me for?”</p><p>Nicolò gently touched her arm, giving her the hopeful eyes one would have to be soulless to refuse. “If we do go through with this, we’d like you to lead, you’re the most experienced with all possible issues we could undertake, so, what do you think?”</p><p>She appeared baffled, but then threw her hands up. “Fine, it’s not like we’ve got anything better to do.”</p><p>Nicolò pulled her close and pressed a big, wet kiss on her cheek, managing to make her smile. She returned the gesture, a brush of her lips against his cheek before returning to the baklava, savouring the filling between the thin layers. “Cane sugar syrup, ghee, walnuts. Did you bring this all the way from Egypt?”</p><hr/><p>The rest of the Nineteenth Century was intriguing to say the least, packed with international conflict, wars, and England was in the process of eating half the globe, among other colonialist powers. On the other hand, the fields of science advanced at an elating rate.</p><p>But he had to give it to their fashion, Yusuf loved the tailored suits, leather shoes and waistcoats, the latter especially on Nicolò, who wore every trending haircut with enviable ease. Sébastien imitated a few of them and most were unflattering for his head-shape. Yusuf mostly indulged in the increasing availability of luxury grooming goods, lotions, oils, colognes, and hair-care that provided the structure and moisture his hair needed, even if his curl definition was frowned upon as ‘messy’.</p><p>Luckily, anyone who commented on it had Nicolò practically barking at them, “You put iron in your hair to get the ringlets he was born with, and if your loose waves are cherubic then his are in a higher class of angel.”</p><p>As for new inventions, Nicolò's favorite was the machine gun and jeans, which he insisted originated in Genoa and came from the word <em>Genoese</em>. Andromache’s was cocaine and the concept of the dinosaur, cracking her first joke in what must have been centuries “Look, it’s something older than me!”</p><p>Though dinosaurs didn’t help Nicolò’s latent obsession with the existence of dragons.</p><p>Yusuf was briefly amused by the creation of the Baha’i faith in Persia, even though the response to both the founder and followers was brutal due to it being blasphemy. As far as Muslims were concerned, Muhammed was the final prophet sent by God and anyone claiming otherwise would lose their heads. Despite that, Yusuf still didn’t understand just what the Baha’i, or the Druze for that matter, believed. As far as he could tell they were on par with Zoroastrians. Not quite pagans, but not People of the Book either.</p><p>He’d heard of them during their stop in Beirut, then let it slip that he had been raised Shi’ite to the Sunni men he’d been taking tea with, and was faced with jokes and rude questions that managed to still offend him despite being irreligious himself.</p><p>This must have been what Nicolò felt when Protestants mocked and denounced Catholicism to his face. Both their sects had somehow earned stereotypes about whipping themselves and worshipping secondary figures like the Virgin Mary and Imam Ali.</p><p>All grumblings and nitpicking aside, his actual favorite thing was the rise of new, strange literature like <em>Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland</em>, <em>Dracula</em>, and <em>The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde</em>.</p><p>Sébastien was still too deep in his depression over outliving his sons to find anything enjoyable in their lives, he quietly traveled with them and did what Andromache ordered. The one time he expressed any signs of joy was when Andromache mentioned that they had met Miguel de Cervantes and influenced some parts of <em>Don Quixote</em>.</p><p>It wasn’t like it was when Quynh was here, but they had become a family again.</p><p>In between their missions, they found themselves back in England among the literary circles, and invited to many parties hosted by Oscar Wilde. Yusuf found him witty and entertaining, but Nicolò found him obnoxious and, after a tense interaction with Wilde’s fellow decadent Algernon Charles Swinburne—who Nicolò referred to as Swine-Born—he refused to accompany Yusuf to gatherings.</p><p>Sébastien spent a few drunken hours with Wilde, speaking exclusively in French about France, and then spent most of his time touring the sights of industrialism and the bars, indulging his interest in advancing technology and getting blackout drunk.</p><p>Andromache had no patience for intellectuals, and during most events and outings she cross-dressed as Nicolò's ‘younger brother’ Andrew and went about her business, claiming to be spying for crucial information. But Yusuf had a feeling she was visiting a host of lonely, neglected housewives and libertine young men.</p><p>At one of Wilde’s parties, Yusuf was deep in conversation with their host, who had his lover draped all over him, smoking. Yusuf couldn’t help but pity Wilde’s pregnant wife, it made him think of Nicolò telling him that one of the reasons he joined the priesthood was so wouldn’t have to marry a girl he’d make feel miserable and unloved.</p><p>There was also the risky openness, while Yusuf was effectively a ghost who came and went from society as he pleased, untouchable by the law, Wilde was a very public figure.</p><p>That, and his lover was a heinous spoiled brat. He lost count of the arguments he had to witness between these two. It seemed that dynamics like this weren’t limited to married couples who resented one another for lack of choice.</p><p>He wondered if it was too late to seek out Arthur Conan Doyle and pester him about the next Sherlock Holmes story…</p><p>The brat had left them in favor of getting more champagne when Wilde patted the vacated spot next to him. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask, Mr. Kaye-Sawney, that’s Scottish, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Yes,” he answered quietly. It was the second time he’d used this name, the first was in Elizabethan England, in America he’d alternated between both halves of the surname and going by the ubiquitous Smith, and in British-occupied lands it was Jones.</p><p>“I’ve been meaning to ask, but the last person I asked—Alexandre Dumas, you know him? Junior, I never got meet Senior. Last person I asked was him, when I was in France. He didn’t take my questioning nicely. I think his grandmother was African?” He waved his hand aimlessly. “My point is, what are you? You have a very warm complexion and such deep, dark eyes, but you’re too dark to be Welsh.”</p><p>Yusuf took an uncomfortable gulp from his wide-rimmed glass. He’d passed himself off as Welsh a few times, hence the usage of Jones. “What do you think I am?”</p><p>He scrutinized him with slow, inebriated eyes. “Indian mother, Scottish father?”</p><p>Yusuf had seen plenty of Indians in London, and none remotely resembled him, but most made no distinction in hair, features or undertone, they just saw a certain shade.</p><p>“Sure, let’s go with that.”</p><p>Wilde laughed. “What about your boy, what was he again? Russian?”</p><p>“Italian.” Yusuf said tersely. “He’s not a boy, he’s not that much younger than me.”</p><p>Wilde didn’t look impressed. “I thought Italians would be livelier, and more attractive, he always seems so frigid and surly, never accompanying us. And <em>that nose</em>, it's a wonder he can see past it.”</p><p>Yusuf held his tongue, he was close to calling him an old fool being led into disaster by his ‘lively’ lover. “Social gatherings this impersonal are not his preference, he prefers small dinners where he can give undivided attention to all attendees.”</p><p>“Still, he could not look like he’s being tortured when you bring him places, especially to the parties and people I’ve introduced you to, where we have the most fun.”</p><p>“Nicholas isn’t one for public hedonism, he’s quite shy, and hesitant.”</p><p>“It’s a wonder how you get him sideways then.”</p><p>“It took us ages to be thoroughly intimate—” more like two-hundred years. “—but I never wanted to pressure him. It’s not easy for him, he used to be a priest.”</p><p>Wilde choked on his drink. Yusuf smirked behind his.</p><p>Done with his coughing fit, he reached over and clapped Yusuf on the shoulder. “And here I thought you were a sweet, quiet man when you’ve corrupted a priest. That’s a testament to your wills right there.”</p><p>Yusuf frowned. “I didn’t corrupt him.”</p><p>“Come now, be honest. My first boy seduced me, lured me from my wife he did.” he laughed. “How else did you convince a priest to abandon his entire life for you?”</p><p>This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked this question. “I didn’t, we just love each other.”</p><p>Wilde rolled his eyes at him. “For now, you’re still young. Wait til he has a crisis of faith and goes back, repentant and repudiating you. But speaking of corruption, I wanted to run an idea for my next story by you.”</p><p>Face tight, he urged him to continue. “I’m listening.”</p><p>Wilde went on to tell him about his story about a dangerously beautiful young man called Dorian Gray, who made a Faustian deal to remain young and beautiful while his portrait aged and decayed in his place. Yusuf was tempted to tell Wilde that he had met the author of <em>Doctor Faustus</em> and had found Marlowe just as annoying. Or that he needed no such portrait, remaining forever young by inexplicable means Nicolò loved to call destiny.</p><p>Mid-conversation, he caught sight of someone entering the room. Turning his head slightly, through the clouds of cigar smoke, he locked eyes with the newcomer and the surrounding noise of laughter, chatter, and clinking glass was muffled.</p><p>Nicolò stood in the doorway, his sandy hair artfully arranged in a halo of loose curls, hands in the pockets of his tailored, black trousers, a white, cuffed button-up shirt hugging his arms and shoulders, and his waist emphasized by the shiny silver vest. He looked delectable, but it wasn’t just the styling, but the look he was giving him.</p><p>Smirking, Nicolò moved away from view, and Yusuf mindlessly got up and followed him through the doorway and to the left down a hall and into a quiet part of the manor. He moved too fast for him to catch up and question him, but past a sitting area he saw a hand extend out an open door, fingers curling to beckon him forward.</p><p>He couldn’t get in that room fast enough.</p><p>Locking the door, he faced what he realized was a bedroom. Nicolò gave him a come-hither look from over his shoulder then strolled to the couch and sprawled onto it, eyes flitting to the opposing four-posted bed.</p><p>Obeying, Yusuf sat on the bed, facing him and sweating. Why was he sweating? What was going on?</p><p>He finally spoke, throat tight. “I thought you didn’t want to come to these things.”</p><p>“I’m not here for the party, I’m here for you,” he said with casual ease, elbow propped on the arm of the couch, hand lightly pressed against his face, the other on his thigh. “I got tired of waiting for you to come home, so I came to get you.”</p><p>“I…then let’s go.”</p><p>“Not yet. Sébastien is at the apartment, and I’d like us to not be disturbed.”</p><p>“Disturbed from…?”</p><p>Nicolò held his gaze, pupils dilated in the dim light, then his hand slowly moved from his thigh to his crotch.</p><p>Yusuf’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know why. It may have been the crowded place they were in, the risk of being caught even if a handful here were like them, this wasn’t their place, and they hadn’t touched freely in so long.</p><p>And Nicolò looked painfully tempting in these clothes, and it seemed that he knew it as he slowly began to move his hand back and forth, making Yusuf’s mouth drier than desert sand.</p><p>“I hate how it’s been the past two centuries, I hate how worse it’s gotten lately, we can’t show skin or affection, how crowded everywhere is, and how thin the walls are, where anyone could hear you,” he breathed out his irritation. “I hate how we can’t touch in public anymore without risking trouble. Before we could hug, kiss on the cheek, and walk arm-in-arm, now we need to maintain distance to keep eyes off us, and these rules are stifling me.”</p><p>His frustration escalated with his breathing, rubbing harder. “When was the last time you touched me like this?”</p><p>Swallowing, Yusuf realized why he was reacting like this. It wasn’t just the way Nicolò held himself and was styled tonight, but the desperation he ignited within him, the reminder that it had been so long since they had the time, privacy and peace of mind to do more besides grind as they kissed.</p><p>“I can’t remember. Too long. Not since we failed preventing the British from taking Egypt.”</p><p>Nicolò threw his head back and moaned. “We’ve been dealing with the British for too long, I want to be done with them. I want to leave.”</p><p>“Where?” Fisting his sweaty hands, Yusuf practically whimpered, eyes glued to Nicolò's hand. He was groping himself now, expression fading from controlled seduction to open-mouthed and foggy-eyed lust.</p><p>“Back to Malta, without the others, where we can be alone.”</p><p>He couldn’t keep watching anymore.</p><p>Tearing off his jacket and vest he climbed on top of Nicolò, kissing him as he ripped off his cravat and hastily unbuttoning his vest and shirt while Nicolò did the same before pushing Yusuf up.</p><p>“It’s already loud here, and you always came back late so we can take as long as we need,” he breathed over Yusuf’s neck, unbuckling each other’s belts as they stood.</p><p>He couldn’t help laughing as “How long have you been planning this?”</p><p>Nicolò pushed him hard as he fished a vial of oil from his trouser pocket, landing Yusuf on his back on the bed before climbing on top of him. “Days, maybe weeks.”</p><p>“This must have been very long for you to not only initiate but plan.” Yusuf wriggled out of his remaining clothes before reaching to help Nicolò peel the tight-fitting trousers off.</p><p>“You always start, and I got tired of waiting for you to.” He climbed on top, his messy hair still retaining the curls, his hips bracketed by Yusuf’s knees. “Do you have any idea how good you look in this decade’s clothes? They’re so form-fitting yet flattering, instead of ridiculous like they were earlier. They want us to be restrained, modest and think only pure thoughts, but it’s impossible when I see how your shoulders look in these shirts.”</p><p>He turned his head, moaning in Yusuf’s ear, making him tremble. “I burn with the knowledge of what made Eve eat the fruit. The agonizing temptation of wanting to know, but I do know, and you’ve been cruelly put before me, so close yet so out of reach.”</p><p>Then he leaned in and bit Yusuf’s shoulder, hard enough to rip the first unrestrained noise form him. In the midst of the lustful haze, he felt slicked fingers and saw stars. It had been <em>so long.</em></p><p>Brain turning into overheated mush, he threaded his fingers through that hair and pulled him down into a hard, messy kiss full of desperate moans and gnashing teeth as his legs tightened around Nicolò, whose hips worked himself inside Yusuf with desperate thrusts.</p><p>Moving his hands down the broad back, fingertips cataloguing the dips and curves of his bones and muscles, Yusuf reached what had truly been blessed by the tailored clothes of the era, grabbing a handful of each for support as his legs shook and his toes curled.</p><p>It was amazing, how he made Yusuf burn in different ways, one in the now-discarded clothes and one without them, baring the body he’d spent centuries studying, sketching, coaxing Nicolò out of his lingering shame and reservations and into trying every method they could conceive.</p><p>And it had paid off, because he couldn’t remember him ever being this desperate, this intense, and it was threatening to make Yusuf’s skin melt off his body.</p><p>That return to Malta was dedicated to making up for lost time and wearing as little as possible.</p><p>Renting an apartment in Valletta, and avoiding the spaces British servicemen frequented, they spent their mornings on the beaches, afternoons touring the city, and their nights in, taking advantage of the lack of next-door neighbours and the availability of olive oil for more savoury activities than cooking.</p><p>Night had fallen, but plenty remained in the street. It was some feast day celebration, and the last rays of sundown left the sky a warm purple. Yusuf was seated by the window, having carefully arranged Nicolò in a pose on the chair across from him, sitting on it sideways, legs crossed, a bent arm on the back and a hand supporting his head, which was tilted slight downwards, eyes dilated in the candlelight.</p><p>Sketching, he allowed his mind to wander as his hand moved across the page, shading Nicolò’s curled hair and the artful wrinkles of his white silk shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. They’d been intimate a handful of times since Yusuf was shamelessly seduced in London, but they didn’t hold the same intensity or thrill.</p><p>Yusuf had sampled a lot of risqué literature over the years, some in particular detailed things he longed to introduce in the bedroom, like the erotic writings attributed to the Marquis de Sade, or von Sacher-Masoche. The works of the latter appealed to him more than the former, and apparently those who partook in such acts like to set them in scenarios, like plays.</p><p>With the way Nicolò was looking at him right now, Yusuf suspected he would enjoy what he had in mind.</p><p>He set the pencil and sketchpad aside, it was a decent depiction for him being so distracted. He’d gotten much better at drawing faces, but Nicolò’s was one he could draw from memory now.</p><p>“Think you can keep the clothes on, like at Oscar’s party?”</p><p>Nicolò smirked, the devious look bringing to mind the phrase<em> ‘he had jinn in his eyes’</em>. “Why? You can’t bear to be naked like the rest these days?”</p><p>The increased social pressure of this century has made Nicolò’s natural affectionate behavior and expressiveness the draw of judgmental eyes everywhere, and he had been aching channel his frustration.</p><p>Yusuf found that he enjoyed this desperate intensity. Despite being assured since the Renaissance that he was well and truly desired, being treated as irresistible was something else entirely.</p><p>“I was saying you, not me, could keep your clothes on. Some people do that, along with playing roles and engaging in scenes like their own personal theatre. We somewhat did that before, when you came to the party.”</p><p>“What do you have in mind?”</p><p>Yusuf had to hold his tongue to keep the pile-up of embarrassing fantasies from spilling out in an incomprehensible mess. He had plenty of ideas he’d read and heard from others during their time across the latter half of this century, where, despite the façade of propriety, plenty where absolutely depraved in private.</p><p>One Irish couple he’d met in an intellectual circle via Wilde said that they liked to construct base scenarios and act through them, claiming that they heightened their arousal. Namely when they pretended to be a Viking raider and the nun he kidnapped from a convent.</p><p>“Well?” Nicolò prodded. “Do you want it like last time, only for us to pretend to be strangers at the party, with you a complete innocent that I seduced and debauched?”</p><p>Yusuf’s mouth began to water. If only Byzantine era-Nicolò could see and hear himself now, he’d turn as pink as a Persian rose.</p><p>“Something like that, but a different, more thrilling setting.”</p><p>“Like where, the army camps? A monastery? A school?”</p><p>“A school?”</p><p>“Remember that handful of years you taught poetry at Oxford? Plenty of the students spoke of you with lustful reverence.”</p><p>Stunned, Yusuf’s mouth slowly opened then closed. “Are you serious?”</p><p>“Very. It took some strength to hold myself back from telling them that you’re mine.”</p><p>A shock of pleasure buzzed down his spine, that hint of possessiveness was always there but never firmly expressed. “Alright, so I’m a professor and you’re, what, the headmaster?”</p><p>“If you want thrill, then I would be a student.”</p><p>“Why would a student seduce their teacher, where’s the power imbalance?”</p><p>Nicolò stood, putting his hands on either side of Yusuf’s chair, leaning in. “Is that what you’re after? A display of power?”</p><p>He swallowed, nodding.</p><p>“How about how we met then? Not necessarily the time and place, but the situation.”</p><p>Yusuf did not have fond memories of the Crusaders slaughtering his fellow Fatimids, so it would be wise to pick a setting they were both detached from. “The Roman conquest of Egypt?”</p><p>Nicolò’s devious grin told him to continue.</p><p>“You kidnapped me, but instead of answers you want to, what?”</p><p>He moved his hand from the back of the chair to Yusuf’s face, gripping his jaw, thumb scraping over his thin beard. “You worked in Cleopatra’s palace in Alexandria, you were her scribe, you wrote her letters and proclamations. But she and Marcus Antonius have just killed themselves and I come with Octavian’s men to take control. They say to imprison or kill loyalists, but I want to keep you. I believe you have valuable information as Cleopatra’s confidante and confine you to my quarters.”</p><p>The hand left his face and lowered to the hem of his shirt, lifting it up and off with Yusuf mindlessly raising his arms. “I strip you of your clothes, and bind your hands and I mean to starve you then I notice you desire me.”</p><p>His hands moved to his trousers and Yusuf couldn’t get out of them fast enough, standing. “And then?”</p><p>Nicolò unbuckled his belt while maintaining eye contact with him. “I try to earn your affection, get you to tell me what I need to know, but you resist, so I have to hurt you.”</p><p>Yusuf was officially salivating. “How do you hurt me?”</p><p>He tapped the belt in his hand. “I suppose gently at first, in a way that teachers use to discipline their students.”</p><p>“You want to spank me?”</p><p>Nicolò hooked the belt around his neck, leading him as he stepped back and sat on the bed and Yusuf could feel his heart pound painfully fast, the rush of blood within him amplifying his excitement.</p><p>He patted his lap and Yusuf arranged himself across it, trembling with anticipation. Nicolò’s mouth was at his ear. “Tell me, where did your queen hide her riches?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>Even though he expected it, feeling the slap of Nicolò’s hand on his ass made him gasp. It was a soft stinging sensation that dissipated too fast for him to savour.</p><p>“Let’s try this again, where is the safe kept in this palace?”</p><p>“I’m just the scribe, I’m not privy to this kind of information.”</p><p>“I think you’re lying.” And he spanked him harder three times in a row, so the sound of the slaps filled the room. Yusuf groaned, arousal amplified to a painful extent.</p><p>“There’s no use in keeping her secrets, she’s dead and can’t kill you for treason,” he whispered soothingly in his ear, pressing his palm to the stinging skin, making him shudder. “You can tell me.”</p><p>“I’ve heard that those who betray their masters are punished by those they defect to for being untrustworthy, or for outliving their use.”</p><p>Nicolò gripped one of his cheeks, sinking his nails into the flesh, making him choke back a moan. “Oh, I think I’ll have plenty of use for you.”</p><p>“I don’t believe you.”</p><p>That earned him the hardest slap so far, making him jerk forward with a harsh gasp. “You might as well just kill me now.”</p><p>“Do you not fear death?”</p><p>“There are things worse than death.”</p><p>He paused for a minute, then without warning Yusuf felt the belt whip his tender skin, making him shout. “Like?”</p><p>“Torture.”</p><p>He whipped him again, making him shake more from anticipation. “Is this torture for you?”</p><p>“I’ve endured worse before.”</p><p>Another whipping, the slap of the belt landed lower than the rest, right above his thighs, making him let out an undignified, high-pitched noise. “Like what?”</p><p>“Burns, harsher whips, being choked or stabbed.”</p><p>“You have an odd amount of experience for a scribe, are you sure writing was all you did? Or was that occupation a lie?”</p><p>“I wasn’t always a scribe, an injury bound me to the palace and I had to reinvent myself.”</p><p>“How did a soldier rise to be the queen’s personal notetaker, there’s something you’re not telling me.”</p><p>“There’s nothing. I know nothing.”</p><p>“Liar.”</p><p>He whipped him five times in a row, and Yusuf could no-longer hold himself up, collapsing across his lap, moaning from both pain and excitement.</p><p>Nicolò moved his hand down his back, gently dragging his fingertips across the abused, healing flesh. “This can stop whenever you like, all you have to do is be honest with me.”</p><p>It took all he had to not hump Nicolò’s lap. “Bite me.”</p><p>“If you insist.” Nicolò gripped him by the hair and yanked him up, ripping a shout of surprise and pain from his mouth, arranging him to sit with his back to his chest before sinking his teeth into Yusuf’s shoulder, hand moving torturously slow down his chest, bypassing his pulsating groin to tease at the tender skin at the backs of his thighs.</p><p>Yusuf was going to explode.</p><p>Unlatching his teeth, he pressed his wet mouth to Yusuf’s ear, making him tremble. “You’re being needlessly difficult, I’m going to have keep hurting you.”</p><p>“Why won’t you just kill me and be done with it,” he gasped, sagging against him.</p><p>“Because you’re of more use to me alive. And the more you ask me to kill you the more I’m inclined to defy your wishes.”</p><p>“Even if I knew anything, I wouldn’t tell you.”</p><p>“Perhaps you’re not in enough pain. I can remedy that.”</p><p>Nicolò roughly maneuvered him back onto all fours, but now facing the headboard. He tried to struggle just to give their act more weight and intensity, and he was rewarded with a harsh grip on his hair that made his eyes roll to the back of his head, pushing his face down into the pillow while Nicolò bound his hands behind his back with the belt.</p><p>“I thought we agreed you spanking me is pointless.”</p><p>He tugged at his hair harder, lifting his head, making him arch off the bed. “I’m not going to waste more time on breaking your skin, I’m going to break you in instead.”</p><p>Then he stuck his fingers into his mouth.</p><p>It was hard to keep in mind that they were playing, and that he was meant to be resistant, because his first thought was to suck on his fingers, practically fellating them to tease him. Nicolò remedied it by shoving two more fingers in his mouth, coating them in his saliva.</p><p>“Last chance to cooperate,” Nicolò warned.</p><p>“Do your worst.” It was more of a request than spite.</p><p>He made sure to relax before Nicolò’s fingers breached him roughly, the sting of the stretch making his heartbeat drop from his chest to his crotch as he twisted backwards, aching to get this part over with.</p><p>Usually, this took a while, lingering fears from the past about hurting him, but nowadays Nicolò knew better, and knew that Yusuf responded more intensely this way. Gentle slowness had its moments, but now was not the time.</p><p>He pulled his fingers out and moved up behind him, making his thighs shake with anticipation. A hand in his hair and another on his hip as he pushed in hard, making Yusuf stiffen and shout with shock, bound hands clenching.</p><p>Nicolò began to move, each thrust driving him deeper, feeling bigger than he did due to the light lubrication, the searing pain quickly combining with the bursts of pleasure as he pressed on the spot inside on him that made him grow harder and leak.</p><p>If his hands weren’t bound, he’d reach back and grab at Nicolò’s hair, push himself onto his knees to adjust the angle, press his back to his chest and press their mouths together. But this wasn’t one of their loving, intimate moments where they took their time, this was a game, meant to push his limits and surprise him.</p><p>There was a thrill to being at his mercy, one that increased tenfold when he thrust faster, nails digging into his hip, the grip on his hair lifting his head off the pillow and arching his back.</p><p>“I’m starting to think you like this,” he said viciously, breath wet in his ear. “Do you enjoy being used like a whore? Is that what you were before you became a scribe, some palace official’s plaything, and earned your spot not with your hand but your mouth?”</p><p>“No,” he gasped in between moans.</p><p>“How many men did you do this for?”</p><p>“You. Just you.”</p><p>“It better stay that way.” He pulled Yusuf off the bed, chest to his back and bound arms, an arm around his waist to hold him as he bit on the junction between his neck and shoulder.</p><p>“Even if you know nothing, I think you can still make yourself useful,” he heaved, thrusts stuttering, catching his earlobe between his teeth. “I’m going to keep you chained to my bed, use you every night to unwind, lose myself in you. Would you like that?”</p><p>“No,” he groaned half-heartedly, trying hard to act like none of this was tempting.</p><p>“Too bad.” He forced him back down, pressing him into the pillows as he rode him mercilessly until Yusuf reached the tipping point.</p><p>Body taut, he screamed into the pillow, a deluge of pleasure washing through him, before sagging against the bed, prostrated before Nicolò, grunting unevenly, grinded into him before letting out a final strangled moan.</p><p>Pulling out, Nicolò unbound his arms and dropped heavily by him, panting. Yusuf remained on his stomach, the feeling returning to his wrists as turned his head to look at his lover’s thoroughly debauched face, green eyes glassy with fading arousal and exhaustion, not just from the effort but the act.</p><p>Yusuf couldn’t resist a rasping, winded laugh as he rolled onto his side, pain already subsiding, but the rush of release still buzzing through him. “How do you feel?”</p><p>“I should be asking you that, I was very horrible with you.”</p><p>“And I loved it,” he said, grinning tiredly. “I’m asking because you tend to feel anxious or guilty.”</p><p>Nicolò avoided his gaze, looking more at his hand than his face. “We’re not supposed to enjoy being punished or giving punishment. I don’t know what that says about us.”</p><p>“We’re just playing at punishment, you’re not actually a Roman soldier torturing me for information just like you’re not actually forcing yourself on me.”</p><p>Nicolò nodded, closing his eyes as he breathed out through his nose. “I know, it’s easier to keep in mind now, but how do I know if I do something you don’t like?”</p><p>“I’d tell you.”</p><p>“I feel like you wouldn’t, to not discourage me from trying again.”</p><p>“You know me too well.” He rolled closer, stroking Nicolò’s hair off his face. “Tell you what, next time, let’s have a signal that it’s gone below my enjoyment, like a tap on your hand or a word.”</p><p>“Sounds good,” he hummed, eyes still closed, drifting into sleep.</p><p>Yusuf draped himself over Nicolò’s chest and felt his arm settle on his back and a kiss on his forehead. They quickly drifted off to sleep, waking at dawn to continue their meticulous tour and exploring the new side to their alone time with varying results, codifying their favourites and adjusting the lackluster ones.</p><p>Yusuf lost count of the sketches he made of Nicolò passed out in their bed, half-dressed, his hair a mess, lighting and shading from the early morning light when he woke before him.</p><p>It was the last proper vacation they’d have for a good while.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I just spent 3 days in a car moving to my new home and let me tell you, I am <i>exhausted</i> so --</p><p>Don't forget to leave a comment! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧</p><p>You can follow me here on <a href="http://lucyclairedelune.tumblr.com"><b>Tumblr</b></a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Now in the Modern era, Yusuf and Nicolò are worn out from the events of the 20th Century, and the dawn of a new millennium may be too much to handle until it redeems itself. </p><p>They can get married now. Also known as, the other <i>'that time in Malta'</i>.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I officially joined the Old Guard Big Bang! I'm both nervous and excited, it's going to be an AU from Nicky's POV this time.</p><p>Also, slight disclaimer: In this chapter I was going to use Abdel Halim's song <i>Ahwak</i> then I realized the lyrics were kinda sad and used <i>Gana el-Hawa</i> instead, which came out later that decade so, uh, historical inaccuracies? What historical inaccuracies?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They didn’t make as big of an impact as Nicolò had hoped.</p><p>There were too many problems in too many places and it was just the four of them and their limited resources. It was also getting hard to travel thanks to the advent of identification and passports, but it was something. They did go into the midst of conflicts and help sway some results, save as many people as they could.</p><p>Then the Twentieth Century hit and it was one unprecedented disaster after the next.</p><p>He couldn’t tell if things were getting worse or if they were just more aware of what was happening in the world due to the increasing connectivity of the nations.</p><p>Empires collapsed, countries gained independence or lost it, their borders were redrawn, were made then unmade, went to war, new regimes rose and fell, and created death counts to rival the Mongols and the Black Death. Entire groups of people were nearly wiped out, and terrifying new weaponry was created, unveiling atrocities of mythological proportions.</p><p>And Yusuf was just so tired.</p><p>It wasn’t because of the new ways he had died in the trenches, but everything else that had them zipping around the globe to places he’d never even thought of.</p><p>They were just all so, so, <em>so </em>tired.</p><p>None more than Andromache who was slowly giving up on their efforts.</p><p>At some point, she had made covert connections with people who worked in various governments, now getting jobs sent to them as proposals, but what started as ‘kill this future mad scientist’ and ‘assassinate this high-ranking officer’ became ‘rescue controversial political figure’ and ‘go into the midst of ethnic skirmishes’.</p><p>Now provided with various new fake IDs, passports and names, they had a system of showing up, doing their jobs, then retreating to throw anyone off their scent because disappearing these days was getting harder and harder.</p><p>After what seemed like decades of back-to-back battles and disasters, they took an extended break in Cairo and Rome, primarily out of a desire to witness the expansion of the arts in both their countries. Yusuf got to enjoy peripheral friendships with all who moved to Egypt to participate in the Golden Age of Arabic media and ventured into practicing music.</p><p>For what was estimated to be his nine-hundredth birthday, Nicolò had bought him an <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/736362536/m20-egyptian-arabic-mother-of-pearl-oud?gpla=1&amp;gao=1&amp;&amp;utm_source=google&amp;utm_medium=cpc&amp;utm_campaign=shopping_us_a-books_movies_and_music-music-musical_instruments-stringed_instruments-other&amp;utm_custom1=_k_Cj0KCQiAhZT9BRDmARIsAN2E-J1os5xW929_sEOahnfLUVNdWhaWvBz65Z-PtzOCVEZuuAoKeCFx3KcaAqudEALw_wcB_k_&amp;utm_content=go_1843970629_75209192052_346397890273_pla-314760244006_c__736362536_169196469&amp;utm_custom2=1843970629&amp;gclid=Cj0KCQiAhZT9BRDmARIsAN2E-J1os5xW929_sEOahnfLUVNdWhaWvBz65Z-PtzOCVEZuuAoKeCFx3KcaAqudEALw_wcB">oud whose back-pattern was inlaid with mother of pearl</a>, and he wasted no time attempting to compose him a song, putting his poetry to a tune.</p><p>A standout memory of their time in his homeland was one spring night in their apartment, in an increasingly urbanizing Cairo. The balcony was open, the streets were emptying as people returned home, and Fairuz’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYECcyVTK_U"><em>Bektoub Ismak Ya Habibi</em> </a>hummed through the radio on the bookshelf.</p><p>Yusuf, still worn out from the Six-Day War, was slumped in his desk chair, annotating lines in his copy of Naguib Mahfouz’s latest release, <em>Midaq Alley</em>.</p><p>Nicolò entered the apartment, his short hair and brown leather jacket slightly damp, carrying a plastic bag of dusty tangerines bought off the street market, and balancing a tray with plates and bowls. “A little help?”</p><p>He rushed to take the plates to their tiny kitchen, finding a bowl of rice, <a href="https://myawesomethings.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/mg_6349_1895-1.jpg">a bowl of black-eyed peas in tomato sauce</a>, a plate of <a href="https://kitchenkeys.files.wordpress.com/2016/10/chicken-panee.jpg">chicken panée</a> and one of <a href="https://amiraspantry.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/basbousa-1-1024x1024.jpg">blocks of <em>basbousa</em> </a>that oozed syrup. Some women in their building frequently asked them for help in things like carrying their bags, changing lightbulbs or running errands for them and reimbursed them with food. Yusuf’s favorite dishes so far were the multi-layered <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/10/55/f7/1055f7df64c0089d57786496f05e4940.jpg">koshari</a> and the mallow-leaf soup <a href="https://amiraspantry.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/mulukhia-III.jpg"><em>molokheya</em></a>, both he loved topped with tomato sauce and fried garlic, but he wouldn’t turn down anything else made by someone’s mama.</p><p>“Salwa or Lamis?”</p><p>“Lamis. She asked me if I was part Greek when I called the basbousa '<em>revani' </em>and now I can’t remember what story I told everyone else in this building,” Nicolò said tiredly. “Am I a Cypriot, a Syrian or do I have an Italian mother?”</p><p>“This time we said you had an Italian mother, and I think the Cypriot part was the last century, during our war with the British, and you were Corsican in Napoleon’s army, a Byzantine Cretan after the Crusades and I can’t remember the Syrian part,” he said, sighing. “But you could say you have both an Italian mother and a Greek grandmother and an Egyptian grandfather, Alexandria was full of such mixtures.”</p><p>“That sounds more plausible. Did we tell them we’re orphans? She also asked about why we lived together and I said we had no one else.” Nicolò got plates down from their cupboards and began splitting the food. “And she asked when we plan on getting married.”</p><p>Yusuf jerked out of his daze, blinking at him wide-eyed. “We can’t get married.”</p><p>Nicolò gave him a confused look then shook his head lightly, chuckling. “I mean, she’s asking why two thirty year-old men haven’t found nice girls to marry yet.”</p><p>“Are we thirty? You can pass for younger.”</p><p>Nicolò picked up their plates and led him back out to their sitting room. “We’ve been telling people that we’re old schoolmates, so we need to be the same age.”</p><p>Yusuf took his plate and smiled briefly when he noticed that Nicolò had cut up the chicken for him. “Right, right, Yusuf and Nasir, childhood friends who went to some French school run by nuns in Alexandria.”</p><p>“I think she wants you to marry her niece, Hania. She always mentions her whenever she catches us coming up the stairs.”</p><p>Yusuf snorted. “And not you, with your light hair and green eyes?”</p><p>Nicolò pulled a face. “Unlikely. I heard the women gossiping from the stairwell once, and they compared me to a lizard. But they agreed you were very handsome.”</p><p>Yusuf forced himself to swallow his food before voicing his displeasure. He remembered a joke among their army friends, comparing the fair-skinned among them, usually of Levantine stock, to pink pigs or geckos.</p><p>“Are they blind?”</p><p>Nicolò shrugged, chewing lethargically. “You have to admit, I’m less approachable than you.”</p><p>Yusuf was stunned. “How am I approachable?”</p><p>“You have these sweet, dark eyes with laughter lines, a big, even, easy smile, and your features compliment each other, and over all more pleasing to the eye.” He reached out a finger to stroke the bridge of Yusuf’s nose then trace his lips. “Leonardo himself praised your profile.”</p><p>Yusuf didn’t consider himself sweet, he was filled with bitterness that would have poisoned him had it not been for Nicolò’s presence in his life. “You had Renaissance artists tripping over themselves to get you to pose for them.”</p><p>Nicolò touched his own nose. “Because I had that antique Roman look they wanted to revive, not because I was Adonis.”</p><p>“You are.”</p><p>Nicolò smiled softly at him. “I’m relieved you think that after all these years.”</p><p>“I think that the longer we’re together the more I love the way you look, I notice smaller details and what might have been negligible or off-putting at first becomes a favorite feature.”</p><p>Nicolò set down his plate and leaned forward, intrigued. “Like what?”</p><p>Yusuf did the same, gently touching his face. “The mole on the side of your chin, the way your mouth smiles in an uneven way, like one side of your jaw is tougher than the other, the dark circles under your eyes and how they add contrast, emphasizing the shape and color of your eyes.”</p><p>Nicolò moved his head closer, pressing his face into Yusuf’s outstretched palm. “Are you going to write <em>ghazal</em> for my small imperfections?”</p><p>“Maybe, but for now <em>batghazil feik</em>.”</p><p>He laughed lightly, cheeks coloring. “I wouldn’t call this flirting.”</p><p>“Then what would it be?”</p><p>“Stroking my ego?”</p><p>He set a hand on Nicolò’s thigh. “I can stroke something else if you’d like.”</p><p>“Mmm, maybe later.” He looked to the radio, where the intro to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RHgvrG69iU"><em>Gana al-Hawa</em> by Abdel Halim Hafez</a> had begun to play. “It’s your song.”</p><p>Yusuf stood, hand held out. “Our song.”</p><p>Nicolò followed him, hand in his, and Yusuf reached back to switch off the light before pulling him close. They may have been on the third floor, but they could never be too careful, especially when a popular pastime here was spying into other people’s windows. Last thing they needed was someone to call the police on their ‘suspicious activities’. They’d dealt with that enough times, and that wasn’t counting every communist country they’d been in this century.</p><p>Hand in hand, Nicolò's arm around his waist and head on his shoulder, Yusuf held him as they swayed to the music, over two minutes in Abdel Halim began to sing. One good thing about Arabic poetry and lyrics was that to be formal was to use masculine forms, so Yusuf didn’t need to rely on songs sung by women. He could relate any love song to their relationship.</p><p><em>“Ah ma ramana al-hawa weh ne’esna, wel eh shabakna yekhlessna,”</em> he sang as he swayed. <em>When love cast its net over us, the daze it caught us in will be our salvation.</em></p><p><em>“Wel eh shabakna yekhlessna, da habibi,”</em> Nicolò echoed along with the chorus.</p><p>Halfway through the song, Nicolò asked, “How long do you want to stay?”</p><p>“I was hoping to stay and see if peace accords were in talks, or if we’re heading for another war. But that might take years, and the last letter Andromache sent us said she’s heading back to America, rumors of Soviet sabotage to the mission to the Moon are abuzz.”</p><p>“Think either side will actually make it to the Moon?” he asked wistfully.</p><p>Normally, this would be cause for hopeful discussion, maybe a joke about discovering H.G. Well’s Selenite civilization, or even that Yusuf ‘had already made it with the Moon’. But Yusuf couldn’t find a funny way to phrase them.</p><p>“They will if we make sure no one bombs NASA, Soviet or homegrown.”</p><p>“We were just over there for the missile crisis in Cuba.” Nicolò groaned.</p><p>“I feel like I still have sand-burns on my knees from that time,” Yusuf said, attempting to joke.</p><p>Nicolò ducked his head, Yusuf could see his ears turning red. “Don’t tell me you enjoyed that.”</p><p>“I may enjoy pain you inflict on me, but that was not a repeatable experience.”</p><p>“Inflict? <em>It was your idea</em>.” Nicolò spluttered, making Yusuf smile. “And I told you if it stops being fun to tell me.”</p><p>“Relax, I’m joking.” Leaning in closer, Yusuf gently bit the shell of his ear, whispering. “Speaking of repeatable experiences, remember that mood you were in after you shot Mussolini?”</p><p>That was among the preferable heat-of-the-moment romps of the last couple of decades. The rest tended to be fueled by grief, shock or desperation, namely that time in the Belgian woods after they had died from mustard gas. Tearing off each other’s clothes, the only sound being their gasps and cries, aiming to reconnect and ground themselves back in reality rather than get off.</p><p>Nicolò chuckled softly. “The walls are a little thin here. And I don’t know if I have the strength to pick you up and keep you up against the wall today.”</p><p>Yusuf groaned petulantly. “Gag me. I’ll grip your shoulders so I’ll technically be holding myself up.”</p><p>His amusement escalated into tired giggling. “In that case, yes.”</p><p>“It will help take your mind off whatever it is.” Yusuf brushed a kiss to his ear. “What is on your mind?”</p><p>Nicolò was quiet for a good minute, then, in a small voice, he asked, “Think we can do something about Vietnam?”</p><p>“You mean get shipped out to fight?”</p><p>“No, to stop it.”</p><p>“That’s beyond our control.” He stroked Nicolò's back, feeling him tense up. “I know you hate this, but most we can do is help who we can reach, we’re just four people.”</p><p>Nicolò sighed heavily. “I just hate that these wars won’t end, I feel like we haven’t made any difference at all. And now it’s not just your land, mine, Sébastien's and the group of countries that were once Andromache’s territory, but now Quynh’s land. And she’s not here to do anything to stop it.”</p><p>At the mention of Quynh, his voice became smothered, choked up, on the brink of tears.</p><p>Yusuf stepped back, pressing his forehead against Nicolò's. “Shh, it will pass, all things do. We just do what we can and hope for the best.”</p><p>Nicolò nodded against him, taking in a deep breath. “Okay. On a sillier note, think we'll catch the Beatles this time?”</p><p>“Last time we saw them in England you tried to smother John.”</p><p>“He’s insufferable when he’s sober and unbearable when he’s on whatever drug he was taking that day. Besides, I was hoping to see Paul, he was good company. Well, they were all nice where it counted, about <em>us</em>.”</p><p>“I think a lot of people abroad are these days,” he whispered. “The fight to be seen, heard and respected is on the rise, for all kinds of people, including men and women like us.”</p><p>“I’ve heard. I want to go do something, to help, keep those in charge safe from ending up like Kennedy.” Nicolò said grouchily. “I don’t want the risk of another earth-shattering war too soon.”</p><p>At the mention of it, Yusuf’s mind fast-tracked through the events of the Second World War. While Sébastien and Andromache were preoccupied with the terrors in Germany and Russia, and Yusuf and Nicolò had fought against the corresponding Axis’ attempt to claim North and Horn Africa and the rest of Southern Europe. After the Battle of Alamein near Alexandria, they returned to Nazi-occupied Italy and helped sway the outcome by destroying their hold on Rome.</p><p>They were among the crowd that captured Mussolini after Germans helped him escape, and squeezed Nicolò into the firing squad that executed him.</p><p>Meanwhile, Andromache and Sébastien were less successful, witnessing horrors inflicted on the people in Germany and the neighboring lands it occupied, and by the Russians in their lands and in Ukraine, where Andromache had likely originated. It was one thing to hear about it from sterile news accounts, and another to speak to witnesses.</p><p>Neither of them ever spoke of it, but Yusuf had seen the aftermath of the Armenian, Greek and Assyrian Genocides done by the Ottomans, and had spoken to enough survivors to have a grasp on just how bad things got.</p><p>It didn’t help that Abdel Nasser fashioned himself after these men in many ways, expelling whole groups of people from the land, not allowing natives to leave, and had them living in fear of expressing dissent and effectively brainwashing his hostage nation with his control over media and the arts that literally sang his praises.</p><p>But compared to the rest, he was benign, so Yusuf had to wait this out.</p><p>“I want to get rid of, not just those opposing our rights and others’,” Nicolò continued, jerking him out of his thoughts. “but the ones who’re proving their fears right, even if we agree with them on some things, like that poet we met in New York.”</p><p>“Agreeing with them on some things doesn’t change the fact that they’re deranged.”</p><p>“But how could they be that way, how could they fight against injustice but perpetuate their own?”</p><p>“A broken clock is right twice a day, and he preached accepting relationships between grown men and <em>children</em>. If we can ever hope to convince the majority that we’re just like them, then we need to amputate diseased limbs like him.”</p><p>Nicolò made a disgruntled noise, tightening his grip on Yusuf’s hand. “I still can’t believe those ‘free-thinkers’ told us that we’re brainwashed for opposing it. What does that even mean?”</p><p>“Many in America and England perceive me as mixed-race. And apologists have a tendency to equalize their depravity with valid injustices, saying that if we’re an ‘interracial’ same-sex couple we can’t oppose pederasty and child-marriage, as if that is remotely comparable.”</p><p>He didn’t even want to get started on the people that defiled animals.</p><p>“False equivalency,” Nicolò grumbled. “Can I shoot the loudest among them before they hinder the movement?”</p><p>Yusuf sighed through his nose. “I don’t blame you, but remember, we can’t make any martyrs because that will just embolden their supporters. We need to keep killing those who have no known faces, or recognizable names, but enough power to sway outcomes.”</p><p>Nicolò was quiet for a bit, then he mumbled, “Do you think it will be different by the end of the century?”</p><p>Yusuf was taken aback by how melancholy Nicolò was, he was the optimist between them. “I think it will in some parts of the world, namely the West. Desegregation will happen, women will be freer with power, relationships like ours—inter-ethnic and same-sex, will be more open and commonplace, they already are, they just need to feel safe to do so.”</p><p>“Promise?”</p><p>He tilted his face, slotting his lips against Nicolò's. “Promise.”</p><p>The Twentieth Century did bring great change, but that wasn’t without unprecedented international fear and stress, but for the most part, the world had become a radically different place.</p><p>It made time feel like it was going far faster than it really was, and with that came its own problems.</p><hr/><p>It would be dishonest to say that Yusuf didn’t have a life crisis when he suddenly found himself in a new millennium. The Year Two-Thousand brought with it some ridiculous amount of mass hysteria, but what did it for him, that midnight in Rome, was realizing that he was almost a millennia old.</p><p>It was a date and age he knew for a fact, but couldn’t grasp as a feeling.</p><p>He was older than the most commonly-spoken languages, he’d spoken languages and dialects that died out, watched languages and dialects evolve, passed through the same country three times and found it radically different each time, and met historical figures so distant in human memory they were becoming mythologized.</p><p>Speaking of mythology, almost no one believed in far off, magical places, magical creatures or even magic in general, the entire planet was charted, integrated into a system, and nothing since the discovery of pre-historic animals had suggested that strange creatures could have existed.</p><p>Nicolò was still holding out hope that someone would find a dragon skeleton.</p><p>“It’s not possible,” Yusuf argued from across the tall table in their corner of the shop. They had voted to spend the holidays in Italy this year, and after a bleak Christmas with a melancholy Sébastien and a burned-out Andromache, both of which left to find hookups for the night, they were left to ring in the new year alone.</p><p>It was a few hours til the new millennium, they were in a buzzing café near the Trevi fountain, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=11mejVpT6Yg">Mina Mazzini’s <em>Il cielo in uno stanza</em></a> soothingly playing through the chatter of patrons, singing of a love that couldn’t be contained by walls, encompassing their surroundings.<em> Come se non ci fosse più niente, più niente al mondo… As if there was nothing, nothing else in the world.</em></p><p>In between humming along and discussing the existence of dragons, Yusuf slowly felt himself unable to breathe.</p><p>“We said reaching the Moon was impossible, and look what happened!”</p><p>“That’s not the same, if there was any evidence for dragons we would have found it a long time ago, especially back when people claimed to be slaying them!”</p><p>Nicolò folded his arms over the table, leaning in closer, his hair growing out of a crew cut and hanging over his quirked brows. “Then how do you explain so many distant cultures having stories about giant flying serpents? Or defeating giant horrible scaly things?”</p><p>Yusuf paused for a second before saying, “Satan?”</p><p>He fixed him with a dull stare.<em> “Wallahi, ya Yusuf, damak khafeif awi.”</em></p><p>Normally, he would have laughed at how well Nicolò acclimated to modern sarcasm, but now <em>‘I swear to God, Yusuf, you’re so witty’</em> just reminded him that he was too busy smothering his panic to offer up a cheeky smile.</p><p>That and the fact that Egyptian Arabic was practically its own tongue, separate from what the <em>darjas</em> the people in the Maghreb spoke—which was even further removed from what the Levantines and Gulf Arabs used—made his head spin. Despite it still being called 'speaking Arabic' plenty had trouble communicating, settling for foreign tongues like French and English. And the now-Classical Arabic he had grown up with was the version no one naturally spoke, adapted into a Modern Standard for literary, professional and international use.</p><p>The Italian they were currently speaking hadn’t even existed when they’d met.</p><p>He swallowed, feigning lightheartedness. “What? Don’t Christians say that the devil is a snake or a dragon or something?”</p><p>“And the rest don’t?”</p><p>They had no doubt discussed this in some form before, but neither could remember. They must have had the same conversations in different ways in different tongues across the centuries a dozen times by now. The past was long and hazy.</p><p>He scratched behind his ear, unsettled. “I don’t think Jews have the concept of the devil? Not the way people think of it now, but Muslims just think he’s an ugly but powerful demon, likely a jinni. That’s even assuming Iblis is Lucifer.”</p><p>“Jinni, not a fallen angel?”</p><p>“Eh.” Yusuf pulled an uncertain face. “Depends on who you ask these days, I’ve heard both 'angel cast out of heaven' and jinni, in the sense that he was a being ‘made out of fire’, which jinn are.”</p><p>“So, an angel made of fire. Iblis was a seraph?”</p><p>“Could be. Could be all of the above, a shapeshifter, so he could have been the progenitor of your dragon hypothesis,” Yusuf attempted to joke, coming off as nervous more than lighthearted.</p><p>Nicolò rolled his eyes, bright in the overhead light of the shop, matching his sea-green sweater, the one Yusuf had picked out for that precise reason. “He must have been real busy getting defeated by so many sky gods across the globe.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Almost all the dragons and serpents in religions were defeated by some sky god.”</p><p>Perhaps getting Nicolò to ramble would help soothe him, he was always so captivating when he talked about his favorite topics. He could listen to him talk about cat breeds, dessert recipes and gun types for hours.</p><p>“Really? Can you list them out for me?”</p><p>Nicolò started counting on his fingers. “Zeus and Typhon, Apollo and Python, Thor and Jormungand, Fereydun and Zahhak, Perun and Veles, Susanoo and Orochi, Indra and Vritra—I can keep going.”</p><p>“That is pretty widespread. If Satan is a serpent then God is kind of lame for not defeating him to this day, letting him go around whispering temptations in our poor ears.”</p><p>Finally, Nicolò laughed. “I know, right? And some places have benevolent dragons, like in East Asia, and in Mexico they had a ‘feathered serpent’ god that flew, and there’s a high chance that dinosaurs had feathers.”</p><p>“So, there are dragons that had feathers now, not scales?”</p><p>“It could be both! Don’t they say that birds and reptiles are relatives?”</p><p>
  <em>“Birds?”</em>
</p><p>Yusuf was disturbed by the idea of a giant fire-breathing chicken.</p><p>“Yes, birds are dinosaurs!”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous, Nico.”</p><p>“Have you ever seen a newborn bird, without all the feathers? They’re terrifying, imagine them bigger than an elephant!”</p><p>“I suppose you’re right.” He reached over, taking his hand, pressing his thumb to Nicolò's pulse, trying to match his breathing to its slow beat. “You really like the idea of dragons. Did you even have the concept of knights slaying dragons when you joined the Crusades?”</p><p>Nicolò's face fell and Yusuf wanted to kick himself. There weren’t many things Nicolò regretted—aside from people they failed to save—and Yusuf never brought it up, didn’t hold what had happened against him, but for some reason he carried a sense of guilt with him after all these years. It may have been more confusing since they both had fought in the Six-Day War last century.</p><p>It was hard, but Nicolò managed to pass himself as a particularly fair-skinned Egyptian with an Italian mother called Nasir Janui, it had been easier when Egypt had actual Italian immigrants, third-generation or more. Post-Abdel Nasser most Egyptians of foreign descent, as well as Egyptian Jews, were gone. All he knew of aside from an enduring enclave of Armenians were those who’d moved there recently, Levantines, Libyans, and handfuls of foreign workers.</p><p>The war may have been brief, but it brought back unpleasant memories of the last time they fought in and around Sinai, especially since it raised anti-Jewish sentiment in the Middle East. Interfaith relations somehow seemed more strained nowadays, despite the efforts to promote Sunni-Coptic unity in his homeland—but at least it didn’t result in a civil war like in Lebanon.</p><p>God, that war had ended almost ten years ago. The Soviet Union did too.</p><p>
  <em>He was so tired. </em>
</p><p>“It seems so quaint now, doesn’t it? How people simplifying and romanticized being a knight, with a horse, sword and shield, but instead of invading lands we had no claim to, or had any idea about for some strange reason or another, it’s about saving princesses from towers and slaying dragons.” Nicolò looked down at their hands, glassy-eyed. “Remember how we contemplated the existence of Classical figures, and how Andromache may have inspired ideas of war goddesses? Do you ever think about how we have become that? Less historical, more fantastical, far removed of our original context?”</p><p>“I do, a lot,” he admitted. “Prometheus may have been one of us eons ago.”</p><p>That made him think of Mary Shelley whose creation <em>Frankenstein</em> had been adapted and bastardized beyond recognition so many times now. And it had been inspired by Nicolò dying and resurrecting before her. Almost two-hundred years ago.</p><p>“Do you think Sébastien is the last of us, or will there ever be more?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“Well.” He raised his mug to Yusuf. “Here’s to the next millennium.”</p><p>
  <em>Next millennium. </em>
</p><p>Smiling tightly, he clinked his cup against Nicolò's. “To the Year Three-Thousand.”</p><hr/><p>Later that year, he was waiting for Nicolò and Sébastien to return from buying new shirts—theirs had gotten irreparably bloody during their last fight—and Andromache had left to pick up her distraction of the night in a club.</p><p>Outside a café in Chicago, he was pressing his pounding head against the wall by the door and breathing rapidly. He didn’t get headaches often, not without head trauma, whatever was happening him had to be—what did they call it these days? Psychosomatic? Stress-induced? All those new psychology terms mashed together. It didn’t help that he knew the ‘father of psychology’ and Freud was a drug-addled lunatic.</p><p>He remembered asking him that if all boys have a sexual fixation with their mothers and all girls did with their fathers, did that include people like him? Because Yusuf couldn’t fathom desiring a woman, let alone his own mother like Oedipus.</p><p>A family arrived at the door, and the mother paused, her son and daughter gripping her hands. “Excuse me, sir, are you alright?”</p><p>She had a round face, smooth, deep-brown skin and long hair in many little braids, her large square-frame glasses and nylon jacket reflecting the blue light from the shop’s neon sign.</p><p>He tried smiling at her but judging by how her daughter reacted, it was a grimace.</p><p>Not knowing why, he was honest with her. “I’m…I keep having these headaches and these moments where I can’t breathe or focus, and I don’t know why. There’s nothing physically wrong with me.”</p><p>“I think you’re having a panic attack,” she said softly. “Do you have PTSD, by any chance?”</p><p>“What?” he rasped, removing his head from the wall, eyes suddenly hazy, breathing fast and shallow. Why was his heart beating so fast?</p><p>“Post-Traumatic Stress disorder,” she emphasized. “My husband’s father was a Vietnam vet and he used to, well, he used to look like you do now.”</p><p>Oh. That’s what they called shell-shock these days, but apparently it wasn’t exclusive to soldiers according to an article he read in some newspaper in Scotland. Survivors of car accidents, attacks, abuse, and any period of prolonged stress had it, hence the ‘traumatic stress’.</p><p>But why now? He’s been in countless fights and battles for almost a millennia. He’d died in every conceivable way so far.</p><p>Oh, God, he was over nine-hundred years old.</p><p>He was older than the phases of the language they were speaking. He remembered when the so-called Kings of England only spoke French. Richard the fucking Lion-Heart, fuck that guy. He remembered Nicolò ranting about how Crusade lore had turned him into a noble and virtuous paragon that Robin Hood of all people bowed down to. He didn’t even rule England, he was always out fighting someone as an excuse not to do that.</p><p>Maybe he was due for a comfort-rewatch of old Egyptian movies, namely <em>Saladin the Victorious</em>.</p><p>“You really don’t look fine, I think you need to sit down.” She set her hand on his shoulder, steering him inside. “Come with me.”</p><p>“Okay,” he wheezed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.</p><p>She sat him down in the non-smoking section. A stupid layout, smoke was still inside the damn shop. He wished they’d ban smoking indoors the smell made him think of burning cities.</p><p>The waitress brought them water, her a coffee, him green tea, and juice and paper and crayons for her children. The boy wore a shirt with a green, anthropomorphic turtle holding Sai swords of all things, and played some game on a noisy, plastic rectangle. The girl, who wore a blue-checkered dress and had her hair arranged in two buns like the ears of a teddy bear, commandeered the paper and crayons.</p><p>“You really don’t need to do this.”</p><p>“It’s nothing, if anything I could use some company while we wait for my husband to arrive. His flight’s been delayed a few times already, God knows if he’ll arrive on time.”</p><p>“Was he on a business trip?”</p><p>She shook her head. “He’s a Marine, and he accrued enough vacation days to come home for the kids’ school break.”</p><p>He really tried his best to smile, because this was good news. “I hope he lands safely and you have a great time together.”</p><p>“Thank you.” The woman set her hand on his his. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“Joe.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Patricia, these are my children, Nile and Adam.”</p><p>His heart fluttered, and he managed to look up from their hands, genuinely smiling. “I had a brother called Adam.”</p><p>In this lighting, he could see her eyes through her glasses, and they softened with concern. “Had?”</p><p>His throat tightened. “Yes, he…he passed away…” some odd eight-hundred-and-fifty years ago. “Almost nine years.”</p><p>“I’m so sorry for your loss.” She sounded like she meant it. “Was it what’s upsetting you?”</p><p>“Among other things.” He tried to relax, breathing in and out. He noticed her daughter was drawing a colorful stick-figure of a woman with a bow and arrow and his treacherous mind reminded him of Quynh. “I’ve lost a lot of things and people, and I don’t know why it’s just starting to upset me now, in one go.”</p><p>“That tends to happen. You repress things for a while, push them away because you don’t have time to deal with them, or because you think you’re fine, then something happens and the damn breaks.” Patricia chuckled softly. “Sorry, I majored in Psychology in college. I never got to practice, but I can’t help dishing out explanations.”</p><p>“That makes sense, in a way.” He nodded, better to change the subject while he could. “Nile, you said her name was? Like the river?”</p><p>“Yes! I was pregnant with her when we went on a family trip to Egypt. Once I got on the cruise ship she wouldn’t stop kicking, so, I figured she just liked being on the Nile so much.”</p><p>Yusuf laughed, and tears sprung to his eyes. “That’s just great. I’m Egyptian, I’ve taken my partner and friends on a few cruises.”</p><p>“You are!” She clapped excitedly. “Can you explain some things to me? You can totally ignore them if they’re stupid.”</p><p>Wiping his tears with his thumbs, he felt the headache decrease. “No, no, ask away.”</p><p>“You don’t speak the ancients’ language, do you? I remember a tour guide did but I don’t think others did?”</p><p>“No, Modern Egyptian is a dialect of Arabic with a lot of other influences, making it distinct from what the Arabs and the Magharba speak.”</p><p>“Magharba?”</p><p>“People from the Maghreb, you know, Marrakech, Tunis, and Algeria.”</p><p>“Marrakech, isn’t that a city?”</p><p>He tried not to cringe at his slip-up. Countries and their names changed too damn often these days. “In Morocco, yes. It used to be called Marrakech. The Persians still call it Marrakech, last I checked. It’s where the word Morocco came from, but now in Arabic it’s simply called the Maghreb, which can be a bit confusing.”</p><p>He was rambling and it was escalating his breathing. This was not good.</p><p>“I’ll bet, both the region and country have the same name? How come?”</p><p>He waved his hands around, more to direct energy than for the usual gestures that accompanied his speech. “Eh, Maghreb means ‘sunset’, it comes from the word <em>gharb</em> which means ‘west’. A long time ago, before the Americas were discovered, that was the westernmost part of the world.”</p><p>Her mouth slowly opened in fascination. “Like how in English there was the Occident and the Orient, sunset and sunrise.”</p><p>“Yes, exactly!”</p><p>“Is the word Oriental offensive? I can’t seem to get a straight answer on that,” she asked.</p><p>Yusuf pulled an uncomfortable face. “Honestly, due to its use, yes.”</p><p>Orientalism was a damaging by-product of the repressed Victorian fascination of the quote-unquote East they were colonizing, and it still made him seethe. The best thing to come out of it was the translations and circulation of Arabic and Persian literature, even if they still got misinterpreted or misnamed.</p><p>Every time he heard someone call <em>One Thousand and One Nights</em> any variation of the <em>Arabian Nights</em> he squirmed. In Arabic itself it was explicitly the former, <em>Alf Layla weh Layla</em>, not <em>Layali Arabi</em>.</p><p>The <em>Aladdin </em>Disney movie, as much as he enjoyed it and its hammy villain, didn’t help much. Well, that movie was a mishmash of Orientalism, it looked more Indian than Middle Eastern.</p><p>And its concept of a benevolent genie was just adorable. The jinn he grew up with possessed people and tricked them into making horrifying wishes. Nicolò and he had a fun debate early in their relationship about whether one could exorcise jinn.</p><p>“It’s also kind of pointless in how unspecific it is,” he explained. “If you’re going to single someone or something out, give them the respect of being specific, or else you’ll continue the idea that everyone is interchangeable and there’s no distinction.”</p><p>She nodded, making a long-suffering face. “I totally get that. My mother is from Ghana and she doesn’t like that the people here call her African instead of Ghanan, as if Africa is a country.”</p><p>Yusuf knew that frustration all too well. In the New World, people were under the impression that the continent-wide countries of Canada, America and Australia were the norm, referring to Africa, Asia and Europe as if they were unified or homogeneous. He remembered back when <em>Star Trek</em> had presented a character as being from a 'United States of Africa'. Despite the charming ignorance, he did appreciate the impact that show, and its collection of characters, had at that time.</p><p>“Yeah, people here don’t believe me when I tell them I’m African, North African to be precise, like how your mother is West African.”</p><p>She nodded, pleased. “Oh, one more question, I have a Moroccan co-worker who told me not call her an Arab, she said she was—what was it? Mazik? Is that the same for you?”</p><p>“Amazigh, it’s a Maghrebi ethnicity.” He shook his head. “I’m not Amazigh, but I am not an Arab either, I’m just Egyptian. If you want a broader term for grouping me with others then there’s Middle Eastern, Mediterranean and North African.”</p><p>“Mediterranean, huh, I never thought of that.”</p><p>“Yeah, my partner and I are both Mediterranean.”</p><p>“Oooh, what is she? Greek?”</p><p>His newfound ease evaporated. As good as things have gotten, people weren’t wholly accepting and it was difficult to gauge who would be nice about it. Despite the growing openness in the West, there were still levels of hostility and disrespect.</p><p>Just a few weeks ago, Nicolò got into a brief fight by head-butting a man and breaking his nose when he asked “Which one of you is the woman?”</p><p>“Italian,” he answered.</p><p>Right on cue, Nicolò and Sébastien entered the shop, carrying bags and wearing crisp new shirts. Nicolò frowned when he spotted their table, softening into curiosity as he arrived.</p><p>“Hey, who’s your friend?”</p><p>Yusuf stood, anxiety spiking as he blabbered, “This is Patricia, and she has diagnosed me with panic attacks and stress migraines.”</p><p>Concern sprung into his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”</p><p>Yusuf was officially trembling. He felt like he was tweaking but he hadn’t taken amphetamines in years. “I didn’t know what it was.”</p><p>“You could have at least told me something was upsetting you.”</p><p>He shifted into Italian, saying <em>“It’s—not now, okay? Not here.”</em></p><p>Nicolò nodded. <em>“Let’s go home then, I’m too tired to cook so we decided to order.”</em></p><p>He turned to bid Patricia goodbye and found her eyeing them both. “I take it this is your Italian partner?”</p><p>Already sweating, he put a hand on Nicolò's arm. “Yes.”</p><p>Patricia held out her hand to Nicolò then to Sébastien. “My, those are some rough hands you’ve got. You do a lot of rope-climbing?”</p><p>“Something like that,” Sébastien mumbled.</p><p>“Thank you for keeping him company, and telling us what’s going on with him,” Nicolò said, holding her hands between his. “Trying to get him to tell me what’s wrong is like prying open a clam with your nails.”</p><p>Patricia laughed, making Yusuf relax again. She wasn’t making a big deal out of them, or shielding her children, or any of the usual hassle. “That’s a new use for the word ‘clammy’ if I ever heard one.”</p><p>“I’m not clammy.”</p><p>“You are.” Nicolò stuck out the tip of his tongue. “You’re telling me about how long you’ve been upset when we get back, no excuses.”</p><p>“Fine.” He set a hand on his back, herding him away. “It was very nice talking with you.”</p><p>Patricia waved at them. “You too, take care!”</p><p>On their way out the shop, he saw her daughter, Nile, raise her head from her drawing and look straight into his eyes. He felt something strange, but he couldn’t tell what it was.</p><p>A few days later, after sampling a few psychology books in the nearby bookstore, he returned to their apartment and announced, “I think I’m having a mid-life crisis.”</p><p>“You’re way too old for that,” Sébastien grumbled, eyes glued to the TV, absorbed by a football match. He never understood how they managed to pay attention to the ball when so many men in tiny, shiny shorts were running around it.</p><p>Nicolò smacked Sébastien's arm as he passed the couch, the smell of frying onions, garlic and olive oil wafted out after him. “Come, explain to me.”</p><p>He ended up sitting on the counter, watching Nicolò cook, he liked to make his pasta from scratch whenever possible. It was nice to see him in his element, one that wasn’t fighting or sniping people from a stiff, controlled distance. There was sweat under his arms and on his back, sticking his dusty-blue T-shirt to him, emphasizing his shoulder-to-waist ratio, the inverted triangle that had Michelangelo salivating and likely inspired his sculpture of <em>David</em>.</p><p>But the shirt wasn’t as good as those jeans. Bless whoever invented shape-hugging, comfortable clothes, because he enjoyed the shape they gave his thighs and ass. They weren’t that outline when he was naked.</p><p>“So, are you sure you never felt this way before?” he asked as he hung the newly-strained noodles to dry. “You didn’t have these migraines before?”</p><p>“No, why?”</p><p>Nicolò made an uneasy face. “Just checking that it isn’t a sign of anything changing, that your immortality is leaving or anything.”</p><p>“No, no, I’m fine. It’s all in my head.”</p><p>“It being in your head doesn’t make you fine, you’re still in pain.”</p><p>“I’m confused and emotional, it’s not pain,” he said dismissively, running a hand over his freshly-shaved head. He’d gotten set on fire recently and hair didn’t grow back like skin or nails for some reason. “Being hit with a bomb and regrowing organs and skin, now that’s painful.”</p><p>“Joe. Beppe. Stop it.” He finished with the noodles, then moved to seasoning the minced meat. It was spaghetti bolognese tonight, it seemed. “Would you say that to me if I told you I was upset?”</p><p>“I’m not upset! What do I have to be upset about? Being old? We’re all old!”</p><p>“Speak for yourself!” Sébastien yelled from the living room. “You’re both old enough to be my great-great-great-great-great—”</p><p>“We get it, thank you, Bas.” Nicolò rolled his eyes, coming up to Yusuf with the bowl, holding out a finger coated in tomato sauce. “Does this need more salt or oil?”</p><p>Yusuf took that chance to slowly run his tongue over Nicolò's fingertips, then suck them them into his mouth. Nicolò shuddered with a slight moan, and lightly smacked his face. “Not now, you know what that does to me.”</p><p>“I swear if you two start defiling the kitchen I will get the fire extinguisher again!” Sébastien warned, making them break out into giggles. The last time he caught them making out on the couch he ‘hosed them down’.</p><p>“It tastes fine,” was his answer. “There’s still salt in the meatballs, yeah?”</p><p>“A little.” He started making the meatballs by him. “So, what do you think brought this crisis on?”</p><p>Yusuf sagged back, head hitting the cupboard door. “It’s stupid.”</p><p>“Try me.”</p><p>“The date no longer started with a ‘one-thousand—’ and I’m having such a hard time processing that I’ve lived through an entire millennium and almost nothing of what I started life out with is here anymore.”</p><p>“Egypt is still Egypt, and you have Sinai now, and both it and Greece are independent of Turkey. Arabic is still the same, even if no one actually speaks the Standard version, but it’s mostly the same thanks to people needing to read the Quran, you don’t have such a hard time reading old poetry and texts, and speaking to Khaleejis. Cairo and Alexandria are still major cities with their old names, just bigger and more populated,” Nicolò pointed out.</p><p>“My language is a minority dialect, Latin speakers are extinct outside the clergy, my republic is now a city in a whole unified country, and I’ve had to learn God knows how many versions of Italian and struggle sometimes to the point that people there think me foreign to my own homeland.” He finished the meatballs, measuring up their sizes. “And that’s okay.”</p><p>“It is?”</p><p>“Yes. It’s hard to expect the world not to change after all this time,” he said. “We’ve changed a lot ourselves, it’s only fair.”</p><p>“Aren’t you alarmed by how different everything is, the reality of how long we’ve existed.”</p><p>“I used to, but I try very hard not to be,” he said. “It hits me hard sometimes, when I think of how modern people view the past, how they misunderstand or misrepresent it, but I’m glad to have seen all those things.”</p><p>“Even all the bad stuff?”</p><p>Nicolò caught his eye, mouth quirking. “Can’t know what’s good if you don’t have the bad to compare it to.”</p><p>“You’re right. I’m trying so hard to keep that in mind.” He ran his hand through Nicolò's growing hair, it was almost past his earlobes now, he hadn’t grown it out since the Nineteen-Seventies. “Lucky I have you to remind me that there’s still good in the world.”</p><p>“Always.” He gave him a quick peck then went to boil the water.</p><p>“What are the meatballs for? Aren’t you making bolognese?”</p><p>“I was, but you’re upset so I’m making you kofta on the side now.”</p><p>He blew him a kiss. <em>“Habib albi, ashkorak.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Di niete, yousefi.”</em>
</p><p>Yusuf smiled fondly, remembering how he always fed him tangerines when they visited the Mediterranean. “You haven’t called me that in ages.”</p><p>“I forget sometimes, we’ve had so many names.” Nicolò stopped, thoughtful as he seasoned the pot. “You don’t have many nicknames for me though.”</p><p>“I’ve always called you Nico, now Nicky, and sometimes Nicolito. Want me to think of something new?”</p><p>“That’d be fun.”</p><p>“I’ll think on it.”</p><hr/><p>His shock over the new millennium was softened when Nicolò came into their Paris dining room after they’d broken up a human-trafficking ring and dropped a newspaper before him.</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>Nicolò looked excited, rolling back and forth on his toes. “Read it.”</p><p>Yusuf slowly moved his eyes from Nicolò's to the paper, and his breath caught in his throat.</p><p>Same-sex marriage legalized in the Netherlands.</p><p>He swore loudly, waking up the snoozing Sébastien. “What? What is it?”</p><p>Yusuf slid the paper over to him. Sébastien blinked the sleep away from his eyes then squinted at the paper. “No way.”</p><p>“What?” Andromache poked her head through the kitchen, eating cereal out of the box, she had a peroxide-blonde pixie cut these days, and he had to say it suited her.</p><p>“The Dutch are the first people to legalize marriage between two men or two women,” Nicolò told her excitedly.</p><p>She came around fast, snatching the paper. “Holy shit.”</p><p>Yusuf was stunned. In shock. In awe.</p><p>Marriage used to be a transaction, you paid to marry someone’s daughter to bear your heirs, to help you keep a house, or you were paid to take a daughter off a man’s hands, or you married to make deals, alliances, and pay off debts or settle disputes or end conflicts or wars. Then it became mandatory, everyone had to get married or face suspicions of ‘deviancy’, that or you became a monk, nun or priest. That’s what made adultery so rampant, and mistresses and paramours normalized among the elite. Polygamy was falling out of favor, but it still happened, and that bent the rabid claim that it had to be between one man and one woman.</p><p>Marriage for love’s sake was a new concept, and globally that still not the norm. But when it became the pinnacle of romantic commitment, it was still only about having children in the end.</p><p>Civil-unions were a thing, but marriage seemed impossible.</p><p>“I expected a lot of things to happen before this ever could,” he breathed. “People on Mars, lab-grown meat in markets, the discovery of the unicorn, anything but this.”</p><p>Snapping out of his daze, he stood so fast he knocked over his chair. “Let’s go. Now.”</p><p>Andromache frowned at him, still chewing her cereal. “Go where?”</p><p>“To the Netherlands, get married before they change their minds.”</p><p>Nicolò's jaw dropped, then he stuttered a few imprecise noises. He couldn’t tell what language he was aiming to speak.</p><p>He went to hold his face, centering him. “This is what you wanted, yeah?”</p><p>Nicolò's lashes fluttered until he regained his composure. “I wasn’t suggesting, I just wanted to show you good news about this millennium, but if you don’t want to…”</p><p>“No, I do,” he said, feeling a little choked up. “I never thought we could do something like this, but now we can.” He left Nicolò's face for his hands. “Nicolò, will you marry me?”</p><p>“You guys don’t even have citizenship over there, or anything to issue a marriage license,” Andromache pointed out. “How would that work legally?”</p><p>“It’s the ceremony, not the legality, we technically don’t exist in any database,” Yusuf told her before returning to Nicolò, who was turning as pink as Andromache’s usual sunburn. “So?”</p><p>He nodded, trying to smile through his wobbling mouth. “Yes,” he rasped. “Yes, yes, let’s go now.”</p><p>They searched through bag of IDs, and found the one that listed Yusuf as Jozef Smits, a Dutch citizen, and fled for the airport.</p><p>It was a short trip from Paris to Amsterdam, but it felt like it was taking forever for them to land, book a suite, put on the evening wear from their last mission, and call ahead for the nearest place that could accommodate their ceremony.</p><p>By the time they arrived at the courthouse they were winded, sweaty, and had been in such a rush that Nicolò noticed that he was wearing mismatched socks and Yusuf’s undershirt was inside out.</p><p>“You may say your vows,” said the judge, a small, middle-aged woman with short, curling brown hair and spectacles.</p><p>Gripping Nicolò's hands, he faced him, buzzing with a mixture of excitement, disbelief and elation, and he wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t precisely real in the eyes of most governments, but neither were they, and it wasn’t something he had been dreaming of, because it was both never a conceivable option, and marriage wasn’t a concept of romance and pure love until recent times.</p><p>But God, he wanted this so much, a way to just symbolize their history and commitment to each other over the ages, and to be able to have something so many others took for granted yet kept for themselves.</p><p>“Do you want me to go first?” Nicolò asked.</p><p>“No, no, I was just getting my thoughts in order.” He cleared his throat, rubbing his thumbs over Nicolò's knuckles. “We’ve been together for an eternity, we’ve weathered the impossible, done and seen things most can only dream of, and I can’t fathom a month, a week, a day with you not by my side. In a way, it feels like we already are married, and are just here to reaffirm what I know to be true.”</p><p>He was starting to feel overwhelmed, feeling the pin-pricks of sudden tears in his eyes. “That we were made for one another, meant to find each other, and live out the rest of our days together.”</p><p>Nicolò let out a soft exhalation. “What could say that could measure up to that?”</p><p>“Anything. Anything words from your lips is music to my ears.”</p><p>Nicolò laughed wetly, beaming at him. He was so beautiful, he put the Moon to shame.</p><p>“I was not in a good place when we met, I was intending on dying to spare my family pain and shame, torn about what I was, where I fit in the world, and never did I expect I would find you. But I did, and as unpleasant as our meeting was, it has brought me nothing but endless blessings.” He shuddered, turning his hands up to grip Yusuf’s wrists. “I know I don’t believe in higher powers, and haven’t for a long time, but I thank God, the fates, the universe for leading me to you.”</p><p>Nicolò locked eyes with him and said, <em>“Noi abbiamo l’amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle.”</em></p><p>He couldn’t resist a soft gasp. <em>We have a love that moves the sun and all other stars.</em></p><p>“Dante, nice touch,” he said, voice cracking. <em>“Hobena ashfa ‘elaj, wa-fih matawah al-musab takmun al-sa’adat ka-fosoos almas fih butoon al-manajim.”</em></p><p>
  <em>Our love is the greatest cure, and in the crevices of disasters it lies like diamonds in a mine.</em>
</p><p>“Naguib Mahfouz?” Nicolò shook his head chidingly. “I’m surprised, he’s a lot less of a romantic than Dante.”</p><p>“Hey, you started it. You used an Italian poet, I had to use an Egyptian writer,” Yusuf teased. “But to use my own words, Nicky, my love for you burns brighter than the Sun and I love you more than there are stars in the night sky.</p><p>Sébastien groaned. “If you were any sappier you’d be a maple tree.”</p><p>“Are you two going to serenade each other all day or are you going to get married already?” Andromache yelled, tapping her wrist. “The sooner you start your honeymoon the more time you have to fuck each other’s brains out before our next assignment.”</p><p>“She’s right, we better finish up,” Nicolò said.</p><p>The judge took that as her cue. “Do you, Nicholas take Jozef to be your husband, and treasure him as long as you both shall live?”</p><p>“Always have, always will,” said Nicolò.”</p><p>“And do you Jozef take Nicholas—”</p><p>“Yes,” he cut her off, getting antsy. “Without a doubt in the world, yes.”</p><p>She banged her mallet. “I pronounce you two—”</p><p>He didn’t know who moved first, but he didn’t want to let go as they held onto each other and kissed.</p><p>The new millennium may have brought him added stress, but at least it could give them this.</p><p>They departed for their honeymoon in Malta almost immediately.</p><p>Back in Valletta, near the shore, they rented a vacation home for the month and got to enjoying their unbelievable life as newlyweds.</p><p>Married. They were married. A fact that was unthinkable in their time, and in the majority of the current world.</p><p>“It’s a shame we’ve done almost everything,” Yusuf said as they returned from their walk on the beach.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Nicolò immediately took his shoes and jacket off, rubbing his neck.</p><p>Yusuf undressed further before creeping up behind him, hands on his hips, mouthing at his neck. “Adjusting the time zone, this is still technically our wedding night. Imagine if we were new to each other, untouched, ripe for deflowering.”</p><p>Nicolò let out an agonized moan and turned to grip Yusuf by the hair, wrenching an excited gasp from his mouth. “Do you want that to be tonight’s scene? That we’re virginal newlyweds?”</p><p>“Mhm, but I was thinking something more fun than that,” Yusuf turned his face as much as the grip on his hair could allow and kissed at the inside of Nicolò’s arm. “Maybe we didn’t choose this, or we’re not expected to get along?”</p><p>Invested, Nicolò licked his lips tantalizingly slow. “Did I kidnap you again and use this for some political gain, or were we arranged by our rulers?”</p><p>“Arranged for political gain?”</p><p>A small frown of confusion furrowed his brow. “Just to be clear, are we based in reality or is this like the time we pretended to be a thief and the jinni he found in a lamp?”</p><p>Yusuf laughed at that memory. It had been an exercise in swapped power dynamics, where Nicolò was the clueless master and Yusuf was the opportunistic jinni who’d convinced him that each wish needed to be exchanged for something, the small ones were traded for kisses and the bigger ones required intense sex.</p><p>“Definitely a fantasy world where a marriage between two men can broker a treaty. Maybe we’re both spares, our brothers heirs with wives. Perhaps one side is banking on us not liking this setup at all and continuing the war.” A funny idea struck Yusuf. “You know how in the past they used to survey the wedding nights of royals to ensure the marriage was consummated? We can pretend we’re being watched, people waiting for this to go south but we take so long.”</p><p>Nicolò rolled one of his short, coiled curls between his fingertips, a familiar, comforting motion. “Are we being rated on our performance?”</p><p>“I should hope the rating is fair, for we are amateurs,” Yusuf said playfully. “So, what do you think?”</p><p>Nicolò stepped back and his expression and posture changed drastically, from amused and affectionate to wide-eyed and self-conscious, his voice shaky, already in-character. “I—I don’t know, I didn’t have much of a choice in these arrangement, Prince Yusuf. What are we even supposed to do?”</p><p>Advancing, following as Nicolò walked backwards into their bedroom, Yusuf allowed himself to shift into a quiet, confident mode. “If you’re worried about how to proceed, Prince Nicolò, I have a good idea on what to do.”</p><p>Nicolò looked up at him through his eyelashes, in this lighting he could see the flecks of brown in his eyes. “Oh? How?”</p><p>“How far are you willing to go?” he asked, gently touching Nicolò’s arms as they crossed the threshold of their room. “I know this is the last thing you wanted, it would be cruel to go beyond what you can muster. We don’t have to do anything at all.”</p><p>Nicolò bit his lip and looked away. “But we must, the treaty depends on our union. If we don’t consummate our marriage then it becomes void.”</p><p>“That’s what some are depending on, but that doesn’t make forcing us together right…” Yusuf came closer, speaking in a lower voice, that he knew made Nicolò shiver. “Unless you want to, just for the sake of trying.”</p><p>“I do,” he breathed. “But not like this, I always imagined it different.”</p><p>“So have I.” He stepped back, raising his hands. “I understand I’m the last man you’d desire after what our people have done to each other, but—”</p><p>Nicolò caught him by the wrist. “No, it’s not that at all. I have nothing against you personally, if anything I respect how you conducted yourself, I admire your character and—” he paused, blushing, looking up at him somewhat coyly. “And you are a very handsome man, to say the least.”</p><p>Yusuf came back in, a hand on his lover—<em>husband’s </em>waist. “So, you’re amendable to trying?”</p><p>“Very, but—” He looked at the shuttered window left of the bed, hunching bashfully. “They’re watching.”</p><p>Yusuf touched his face, angling it back towards him. “Let them watch, let’s give them an eyeful their prying eyes deserve.”</p><p>With a shuddering exhale, Nicolò moved in, pressing their lips together, a tentative peck that slowly moved into an exploratory kiss as Yusuf turned his head and brought their chests together.</p><p>Hand leaving his face to comb his fingers through Nicolò’s hair, he leaned in closer, feeling hands hold his face with initial hesitance before the palms moved down his neck, shoulders and chest, unbuttoning his shirt with shaky hands, a thorough commitment to their inexperienced act.</p><p>Pulling back, he pulled the shirt over Nicolò’s head before letting him resume undressing him.</p><p>Panting, blood rushing in his ears. Yusuf couldn’t resist a goofy grin as he took in Nicolò’s pink lips and cheeks, and dilated eyes reflecting his desire. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”</p><p>Pushing the open shirt off Yusuf’s shoulders, Nicolò drowsily mumbled, “If that’s bad then what is ‘worse’ like?”</p><p>“I can show you, but you’ll have to bear with me. I only know what I’ve heard from others, not from experience.”</p><p>“That puts us on equal footing—Oh!”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You, um,” he giggled nervously. “Your nipples are brown. I’ve never seen that.”</p><p>Yusuf laughed, hard. “Yours are pink, that’s new to me as well.”</p><p>Nicolò’s eyes flit down then back to his face. “Is the rest of you like that?”</p><p>Centuries ago, Nicolò had pointed out that the color of his tip matched his lips, making him gratuitously run his tongue over his bottom lip. “Why don’t you find out?”</p><p>He was pulled onto a harder, wetter kiss, hands exploring the skin of his back before lowering to his waist, hips and reaching his trousers. Helping him undress himself, Yusuf stepped out of his rumbled jeans and traded light kisses with Nicolò as he slowly peeled the boxers off him.</p><p>Stopping, Nicolò stared with a mixture of arousal, excitement and fascination then frowned.</p><p>“What now?”</p><p>“I don’t know why, it didn’t occur to me you’d be circumcised.”</p><p>So, they were recreating their initial impressions beat-by-beat tonight? Two could play that game.</p><p>Yusuf mirrored his frown, concerned. “Are you telling me you’re not? What is that even like?”</p><p>Nicolò wagged his eyebrows at him. “Why don’t you find out.”</p><p>Yusuf wasted no time pulling the remainder of his clothes off him, kneeling to help him step out the bunched up clothes and socks. Holding his gaze, Yusuf carefully wrapped his fingers around the shaft of Nicolò’s erection, moving it up and down torturously slow, peeling back the foreskin. “So, the rest of you <em>is</em> that pink.”</p><p>Nicolò groaned, putting his hands in Yusuf’s hair. “That—that feels good.”</p><p>“Don’t tell me you’ve never done this to yourself.”</p><p>“I have, but it feels different, your touch…” he panted, hips thrusting. “Are you going to do that all night?”</p><p>Yusuf hummed innocently. “No, I was thinking of trying something.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“This.”</p><p>He took him into his mouth, making him shout and throw his head back. He went all out on the slow exploration, mimicking the first time he did this, inconsistent in rhythm and alternating between sucking and licking, teasing the moans and groans out of Nicolò, whose legs had begun to shake.</p><p>Deciding he’s had enough fun, he stood, pushing Nicolò back until he fell on the bed, then he climbed on top of him. “Would you like to go further?”</p><p>Breathless and flushed, Nicolò watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, making Yusuf’s insides vibrate and his blood hum at an intoxicating frequency. “What does ‘further’ imply?”</p><p>Stretching over him to the drawer by their bed, he took out the bottle of lube, silently thanking modern innovation and the entire industry dedicated to simplifying sex in this time period. Slicking his fingers, he reached back and kept his eyes on Nicolò’s face as he opened himself up.</p><p>“I’ve done this to myself, I’m aching to know what something bigger than my fingers feels like,” he gasped, twisting back to move easier. “I bet I’m tighter than your hand.”</p><p>“You’re killing me,” Nicolò moaned, arms crossed over his face. “We haven’t even started and my heart is beating so hard it might give out.”</p><p>With his free hand, he pulled an arm off Nicolò. “Exactly, we haven’t even started yet, so I need you to at least survive til the end.”</p><p>Nicolò laughed softly, hands landing on his knees them slowly moving up his thighs in slow reverence. “I’ll try my best.”</p><p>Deciding that was enough preparation, Yusuf began to carefully lower himself, taking Nicolò inside slowly, already sweating, biting his lip.</p><p>Most of it was inside him now, a sweet burn, but nothing was sweeter than the look of amazement and love on Nicolò’s face. “That feels…that feels.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he breathed, hands on Nicolò’s chest.</p><p>The hands on his thighs moved up to his hips, gripping him as he began to move up and down, holding him up as he began to get comfortable before speeding up and angling himself in the way he new would hit that spot within him.</p><p>Eyes rolling back, his moan came out as a soft exhale.</p><p>“What does that feel like for you?” Nicolò panted, thumbing his hip. “It looks painful, but you seem to be enjoying it.”</p><p>Yusuf chuckled breathlessly, remembering the decades of debate it took to convince Nicolò that this would be good for them both, that men across history wouldn’t have done this if it weren’t so. It took ages to coax him out of the mindset that it was uneven, giving pleasure to only one at the expense of the other’s pain. That was something he didn’t want to relive in this game of theirs.</p><p>“It’s so good.” He moved faster. “You feel so good.”</p><p>“So do you, I can’t even tell you how I feel.”</p><p>“Then show me.”</p><p>Without warning, Yusuf found himself on his back with Nicolò adjusting himself above him, hands gripping his legs as he began to thrust.</p><p>Yusuf shouted, hands desperately grabbing Nicolò’s sweaty shoulders, pulling him closer, kissing in between gasps for air.</p><p>The rhythm picked up and Yusuf had no control over the faces and noises he made. “I love this. I never want you to stop.”</p><p>“Well, we’re married so you have this, have me, for life.”</p><p>The part of his mind that wasn’t overcome with lust was pleased with that promise more than the act. “So, this was all it took to convince you that this is worth the alliance?”</p><p>Nicolò turned his head, kissing along Yusuf’s neck and jaw. “You have to admit, whether we liked it or not, this is a pretty big deal.”</p><p>“Yes, you are,” he said suggestively. “Very big.”</p><p>That made him laugh, shaking his head, nuzzling the side of Yusuf’s face. “Better than your fingers?”</p><p>“Much better.”</p><p>They kissed harder, mouths opening to allow their tongues to meet.</p><p>Breaking off for air, Nicolò panted, “How flexible are you?”</p><p>Excitement made his heartbeat stutter. “Quite. Why?”</p><p>“I want to try something.” Nicolò lifted Yusuf’s legs higher, going from bracketing his hips to hooking his knees over his shoulders, allowing him to drive himself deeper inside.</p><p>Yusuf arched off the bed, eyes shutting, mouth opening, each thrust pulling embarrassing noises from his throat. “Don’t stop.”</p><p>Nicolò pressed in closer, almost folding Yusuf in on himself, grunting, his hair darkened with his sweat. “What will you do if I stop?”</p><p>When he didn’t answer, too caught up in his own pleasure, Nicolò stopped.</p><p><em>“Enta taleq!”</em> Yusuf groaned, making him giggle.</p><p>“You divorce me? Just like that?”</p><p>Yusuf grabbed at him, urging him to move. “If you don’t start moving, I swear I’ll say it twice more.”</p><p>“Careful, if you say <em>‘enta taleq’ </em>three times you can’t ever take me back, ever. I’ll be free to marry someone else.”</p><p>Annoyed as he was at the interruption, Yusuf couldn’t resist laughing. They’d made plenty of religious jokes over their years, but never did they have the base to make cracks about the rules regarding marriage.</p><p>“You wouldn’t.”</p><p>Nicolò kissed him once more before resuming his pace. “No, I wouldn’t. How could I want someone else?”</p><p>“You could have your pick of thousands. Plenty would die to have you like this.”</p><p>“If you could see yourself, you’d know plenty would kill to just see you like this, let alone have you,” Nicolò panted, coming in so close that their chests touched, buried to the hilt inside him. “But I only want you, I only want you to want me.”</p><p>They weren’t acting anymore, they were reliving all the firsts of their relationship, united not just by death, history, immortality and love, but by marriage.</p><p>Yusuf wrapped his arms around Nicolò’s neck, grounding himself as he felt his orgasm building. Their kisses became clumsy, imprecise, then devolving into just breathing and moaning into each other’s mouths.</p><p>Release tore its way through him, intense, white-hot, leaving him in a boneless sprawl beneath Nicolò, watching him climax, head back, skin flushed, finishing with one long groan before collapsing on top of him.</p><p>“So,” Yusuf cleared his throat, continuing. “How was that?”</p><p>“Definitely worth it.”</p><p>“Worth what?”</p><p>“Everything.” He propped his chin Yusuf’s chest, gazing at him with foggy eyes, cheeks and lips rosy, hair plastered to his head. “What do you think?”</p><p>“If a war was what it took to experience this with you, then I’d fight in a dozen more just to feel you between my legs again.”</p><p>Nicolò huffed out a tired laugh. “Really?”</p><p>“I’m serious.”</p><p>He gave him that small, uneven smile, only one side of his mouth easily curling upwards. “I know.”</p><p>They only had enough strength left in them for Yusuf to slouch up against the pillows and for Nicolò to pull out and rest on his side, arm over Yusuf’s middle, pressed against him, head heavy on his shoulder. Wrapping his own arm around Nicolò’s shoulders, he kissed down his face slowly, his forehead, cheekbone, nose, then his lips.</p><p>Sighing blissfully, Nicolò hummed, “I’m glad we lived long enough to have this.”</p><p>Yusuf gently pressed their noses together. “Me too.”</p><p>“I love you.”</p><p>Heart swelling with happiness, Yusuf tightened his hold on his husband and kissed him again. “And I love you.”</p><p>They drifted off to sleep, and the next day they bought rings from a jeweler. Not necessarily the slim, featureless bands that had become the typical wedding rings, but ones that they felt represented them. Despite no-longer abiding by any religious requirements, or caring what was or was not permitted, Yusuf had never taken to wearing gold. Knowing that, Nicolò chose a wide platinum ring with engravings along the middle, reminiscent of, not just waves, but the intricate patterns of Fatimid art.</p><p>In turn, Yusuf gave him a gold ring with an aquamarine that reflected the water of their sea and the sea-green of his eye—he went the extra mile of having his name يوسف الكيساني engraved on the inside of it. Nicolò, who was prone to losing things, wore it on a chain around his neck.</p><p>When they held hands the first time they slipped the rings on each other’s fingers, side by side they were like slivers of the Moon and the Sun.</p><p>For the first time in who knows how many decades, Yusuf sat down to write new poetry, and Nicolò named all his new favorite stray cats after the characters in Boccaccio’s <em>Decameron</em>.</p><p>It was a blissful month, the calm before the storm.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Now in the Modern Era, they breeze through the products and problems of the 21st Century and a close call with Merrick that changes everything...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I haven't finished a fic in years, so I'm pretty proud of myself! And I'm working on my Modern AU BigBang which I am very excited for.</p><p>Tell me what you think of the story overall!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Life got stranger afterwards, and more difficult.</p><p>The Internet both fascinated and scared him. Conspiracy theories about supernatural beings, aliens, time-travelers and immortals were at all-time high and easy to share with millions within minutes. He didn’t appreciate loony Americans claiming aliens built his ancestors’ architectural marvels, among a million other things.</p><p>There were some good things, the advancement of medicine and human rights, better, more accessible food, more comfortable clothes, efficient housing, and <em>air conditioners</em>. How did they live without temperature control and refrigerators before? It was probably a good thing he didn’t remember a time before toilets, though he did have to impose bidets on any place they moved to. For the life him, he couldn’t understand why so many countries didn’t have them.</p><p>At least he could always count on finding them in countries that performed <em>wudu </em>and provided bidets like in Italy. Bubble baths, jacuzzis and showers big enough for him and Nicolò to fit into were another plus on the cleanliness line. As well as hair products specifically catered to his hair texture, making it less compact, allowing for separate curls and ringlets to form that drove Nicolò wild.</p><p>In the late Twentieth Century, Andromache suggested he straighten his hair like some singers did and Nicolò all but hissed at her. He mostly alternated between wildly different looks to throw off recognition, a short beard with close-cropped hair, a buzzcut and beardless, buzzed hair and a short beard, clean-shaven and short-haired, or stubbly with short, defined curls. Nicolò's hair varied by the decade, sometimes even the year, and Andromache and Sébastien didn’t make much of an effort, keeping it short.</p><p>In their off time, he and Nicolò always alternated between Malta, coastal Italy or, after things settled politically, Egypt, usually Port Said, Sinai and Alexandria. When tourism became an efficient business they took full advantage of getting the most out of their favorite lands. It had been a while since the language of his ancestors was deciphered and their history, mythology and culture uncovered, founding fields of study and unearthing locations whose mere sight overwhelmed him with hope and unconditional love.</p><p>He’d traced his fingers over the engraved depictions on walls, and felt an ache to travel back in time, to meet and speak with these people, see if they had stories of people like him that inspired gods as Andromache had. He’d even seen sculptures of some figures that shared his profile, his eyes, his lips, and one he could have sworn resembled his father.</p><p>The British still owned too many of their artifacts, and some had dishonored his ancestors to the point of grinding up their mummies and <em>snorting them like cocaine</em>, and if there was any truth to the claims of curses cast upon those who disturbed the pharaohs then he hoped they were true.</p><p>The disrespect and depravity knew no bounds, it seemed. And it was not going away anytime soon.</p><p>After the start of the so-called War on Terror, the seismic tragedy that spurred it, and the increasing visibility of draconian organizations like Al-Qaeda and DAESH, he’s been getting more than his fair share of watchful eyes in public, and some hostile confrontations.</p><p>One time, as he was having glass shards pulled out of his face, he tried shrugging it off to Sébastien by pointing out he was neither an Arab nor was he raised Sunni, Sébastien reminded him that Iran, in its current regressive state, was Shi’ite, and Egypt had been briefly taken over by the Muslim Brotherhood. Nicolò compared it to Christendom’s dark ages of schisms, persecutions and extremism but on a wider, international scale, with damaging foreign interference and ulterior motives.</p><p>Categorizing it didn’t help matters, nor did it spare hundreds of thousands of deaths, or make him weep less for the state of the East, considering he had been born in what was now called a Golden Age. Now he had to witness militants using modern technology to preach and enforce archaic demands under threat of catastrophes and their opposition in the West practically calling for a modern crusade. No one cared about the civilians trampled beneath their bullshit.</p><p>He had to keep himself short-haired and beardless for a good few years, friendly encounters like the one with Patricia and her children were a thing of the past now.</p><p>There was that, and technology was advancing way too fast. The only one able to keep up was Sébastien, who became the ‘Tech Guy’ as their contractors referred to him. Mobile phones went from being bulky and the size of his forearm, to palm-sized, brick-shaped and capable of sending text messages, then they evolved into sleek, glassy mini-computers that could call other countries. They did everything from video-calls, shopping, and spying, which alongside the increase in security cameras and the rapid connectivity of the Internet made it hard for them to disappear.</p><p>People in general were just on high-alert now, and literally anything could make the news and be blown way out of proportion, and circulate forever, with little to no hope of leaving the blasted Internet.</p><p>The conspiracy theories grew, and ranged from hilarious to psychotic to eerily accurate.</p><p>He had to say, he really liked the jokes about ‘secret immortals’. Some people may look very good for their ages, but they were not among them, if they were they’d have been captured and turned into lab rats, not become film stars.</p><p>Andromache lived in rightfully paranoid fear. There was no easy way to willingly vanish anymore. They couldn’t just pack up and slip into any land aboard a ship, rent a place with no questions and stay indefinitely, plane tickets and passports came with allotted dates, overstaying or sneaking wrought suspicion and calls to the police.</p><p>Back during the Cold War and Red Scare, Nicolò read to some people as Slavic, and he got singled out in airports, and in public spaces he was straight up attacked for being perceived as some evil European or another. Sébastien was lucky he still sounded incredibly French.</p><p>It wasn’t long until Yusuf got his turn with the ‘suspicious ethnicity’ role, and got a few wannabe vigilantes up in his face. He’s snapped enough fingers and broken enough noses with swift, dismissive moves that it went from stressful to merely annoying. What was blaming, accusing or threatening him going to achieve? It wasn’t going to stop their beloved leaders from killing helpless civilians and covertly upending whole countries so they’d have an excuse to invade.</p><p>It didn’t help that he was among the minority of people who actually had to deal with militants and terrorists, and killed a fair amount. Yusuf derived a sick joy in telling murderous fanatics that they had met their ends at the hands of an apostate who loved an infidel man, three things they wanted wiped off the earth.</p><p>Sébastien had compared it to the part where a criminal asks Batman <em>‘What are you?’ </em>to receive the response of <em>‘Your worst nightmare’</em>. Yusuf promptly dressed as Batman that Halloween, accompanying him were Andromache as the Evil Queen from Disney’s <em>Snow White</em>, Sébastien was Tall Napoleon and Nicolò was King Arthur, specifically the version from <em>Monty Python and the Holy Grail</em>.</p><p>As for his experiences in the West, he understood where the sentiment was coming from, seeing the rise in radicalization and support for fundamentalism, and whole countries modernizing in technology but stagnant, or worse regressing, socially. It was baffling, how places with sleek shiny cities and all the bells and whistles of modernity were like this. A few years ago, in the Emirates, Nicolò and he were nearly arrested for <em>public indecency</em>. The indecent act of having their arms around one another.</p><p>But, understanding was not validation. Despite all his complaints, things like the Iraq War echoed the sentiments of the Crusades way too closely for his comfort. The foreign interference wasn’t truly liberating anyone. If anything they were helping those hurting them, feeding their fanaticism, giving them excuses to behave that way, making martyrs for their causes. Sometimes their detractors were just as bad, delusional, privileged Westerners steeped in noble-savage narratives, ‘good-faith’ colonialism, and leftover Orientalism acting as apologists, calling any criticism of archaic systems discriminatory and turning blind eyes to the actual discrimination.</p><p>He just wished they’d all shut up and mind their own countries.</p><p>Generally, issues were acquiring more layers in complexity, and <em>he was exhausted</em>. Some days he regretted indulging Nicolò’s idealism and wished they continued about their lives, unseen and unbothered.</p><p>Grouchy complaints aside, things somewhat calmed down as they entered the second decade of the new millennium. He could now grow out his beard and not automatically read as a threat.</p><p>He’d recently been called a ‘hipster’, whatever the hell that was.</p><p>On the upside, both of the United Kingdom and States recognized ‘gay marriage’. That term gave him a chuckle, he still remembered when gay meant <em>happy</em>. But Nicolò and he were happy to remarry in each land that recognized their relationship.</p><p>There were so many new words now, a word for everything he felt, saw, and was, it made things so more concise yet simple. Derogatory terms like <em>khawal</em> and <em>Luti </em>persisted while the English equivalents of <em>faggot</em> and <em>sodomite</em> had become frowned upon, the new general term was <em>mithali</em>, short for <em>mithali al-jins</em>—same-sex.</p><p>It didn’t stop their persecution, imprisonment and murder, but he was going to hold out hope that the East would catch up with the West sooner or later. That the regressive conservatism that included Salafism and Wahabism would go the way of Puritan Protestantism. For now, they had a scientific term, and the sympathy of a minority…</p><p>Nicolò was still not allowed in Mecca, meanwhile, he could go to the Vatican. Strange how the pendulum had swung since the Middle Ages.</p><p>“I don’t know, it sounds so clinical,” said Nicolò to Sébastien. “The other words don’t make much sense to me, ‘happy’ and ‘strange’ don’t fit.”</p><p>“That’s not what they mean anymore, this language evolves faster than your hairstyles,” Sébastien said from over the foam of his beer.</p><p>Nicolò made displeased noises, scratching behind his pierced ear. “I had enough trouble with all the versions of Italian and Arabic, but English is far worse.”</p><p>“I agree, the English are the worst,” Sébastien said, making Yusuf huff out a laugh.</p><p>They were in Germany attending Oktoberfest in the cool night air, on a wooden table among many chattering celebrators, after a grueling mission in nearby Switzerland. There they had to track down a wannabe-crime lord trying to extort the country for billions. It ended with Nicolò sniping most of the goons, Sébastien causing a city-wide blackout, and Yusuf tackling the leader off the roof, crushing their bodies on the pavement before he could detonate his bomb.</p><p>His fingers were still stiff and his neck was tense.</p><p>“What do you think?” Nicolò asked, startling him from his whirlpool of bitter thoughts.</p><p>Yusuf shrugged. “Doesn’t matter as long as it’s not an insult, or equating us with monsters, or infringing upon our rights or the fight of those like us around the world.”</p><p>Nicolò shuddered, no doubt flashing back to the past couple of decades, the most recent epidemic was particularly harrowing.</p><p>Sébastien contemplated his fourth glass of the night. “Does anything make a difference anymore?”</p><p>“Lots of things do, we do,” said Nicolò.</p><p>“Do we? It doesn’t seem like it.” Sébastien looked around them. “I feel like we’re doing too much and not enough at the same time, and in the end it doesn’t seem to matter. I can’t go anywhere without being bombarded by how horrible the planet is, how evil humanity is, how we’re all doomed and irredeemable.”</p><p>“A sentiment rising alongside a mass abandonment of faith,” Nicolò said tersely. “It seems like people fetishize misery more than there being a sudden increase of it.”</p><p>“Who are you to talk about faith, you’re an ex-priest who joined the clergy to avoid getting married,” Sébastien tutted at him. “You never really believed anyway.”</p><p>Yusuf knew that to not be true. It took a while, but Nicolò managed to take the positive, expansionist outlook, that there was a God, just not the one taught to either of them. And Yusuf now understood that it had been hard for Nicolò not just because he had been a priest, but because of how he associated it with the loss of his sister. That his irrational anxiety was dragging its claws across his brain, convincing him that he wasn’t allowed to be happy with the man he loved.</p><p>Nicolò finally let out a long sigh and responded. “I believed in Jesus’ message of hope, love and fairness. The rest, the hurtful, negative things, were not his words.”</p><p>“Were they not?”</p><p>“Bas, you were a Catholic too.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, sure I was. Back when my life allowed for a deity and system.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“The whole thing revolved around us wanting to go somewhere nice when we died, and its laws and expectations can’t exist outside a limited lifespan, it has no use now that we’ve seen there is no afterlife. We have outlived its usefulness, and lived long enough to see everything disproved.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Like what? For starters, Andy predates monotheism, she might even be older than Hinduism.”</p><p>Nicolò looked like he was going to object, then he looked away, working his jaw.</p><p>“He’s kind of right,” said Yusuf. “People aren’t abandoning organized religion because they like being upset, but the other way around.”</p><p>While their immortality had lifted a dreaded weight off his shoulders, Nicolò had felt like a weight had been dropped on him. Nicolò had spent a good while in and out of doubt-induced panic—which was why their intimacy had initially progressed at a snail’s pace. Despite denials, he used to lapse into these moods after they’d sated their desire.</p><p>During the century they’d spent traveling in and around Byzantine territory, Yusuf would wake up to find him questioning his world and life, not with Yusuf’s scientific curiosity, but with misery and hopelessness, going into twitching, sweating states of denial and desperate rationalization.</p><p>They’d have painful, circular arguments then not talk or touch for days. Yusuf had hated how Nicolò would come closer an inch then leap back a mile, full of self-loathing and fear instilled in them by people who were long-dead.</p><p>In retrospect, Yusuf suspected these episodes, like his own depressive spirals, were symptoms of anxiety. They were, without a doubt, traumatized in countless ways from their deaths and their upbringings had left lasting damage on them.</p><p>He’d maintained the stance that people should and could believe what they wanted, as long as it didn’t infringe on the rights or liberties of others, or dictate any laws or excuse ruining someone’s life. Which, of course, was an unpopular opinion worldwide.</p><p>These days, Yusuf partook in the cultural aspects, he awaited the feasts, Ramadan and the Prophet’s birthday for the same reason most did Christmas and Easter, for the festivities, decorations, and of course, the food and sweets. He visited mosques whose interiors were works of art, took up calligraphy again and collected diwans and daggers decorated with Arabic art styles. Nicolò was the same with Catholic culture, but now talked about Jesus like he had been a philosopher, with admiration rather than worship.</p><p>“I’ve seen plenty of people in this century that seem to enjoy being angry,” Nicolò said quietly.</p><p>Yusuf had to agree. “There are misery-mongers who seem to have replaced the righteousness they wielded over others through religion with extremist politics and negative news.”</p><p>“What’s the difference?”</p><p>“The former are like us, who saw that it didn’t help them, or make any sense.” Yusuf scratched his beard, feeling tense. “The latter are assholes who get off on telling children their grandmother isn’t in heaven, they think the anguish they cause others makes them smart and superior.”</p><p>“Godless zealots,” Nicolò said. “Replacing religious doctrine with other ideologies.”</p><p>“It’s very interesting how they tend to behave like the very people they claim to be the opposite of.”</p><p>“Extremism of any sort always ends up looping all the way back around, we’ve seen that enough times,” Nicolò sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I feel like this is why we see less and less of Andy, because the people dedicated to showing us nothing but the worst of humanity are getting to her.”</p><p>“Negativity gets more attention than positivity, that’s how they keep making murderers more famous than scientists,” Yusuf sighed. “Someone commits an atrocity and they get plastered all over the news, everyone knows their names, people sympathize with and make excuses for them, romanticize and admire them, it’s almost like an allegory for idolatry or devil worship.”</p><p>“So, I am a misery-monger devil-worshipper, cheers,” Sébastien laughed.</p><p>Nicolò took in a deep, long-suffering breath, closing his eyes. “Don’t remind me of those Satanists we met in the Seventies.”</p><p>Amusement crossed Sébastien’s tired face. “I forgot about those oddballs. What were we even talking about?”</p><p>“You being just like the people addicted to negativity and wallowing in your own survivor’s guilt,” Yusuf supplied. “And Nicky doesn’t want you to believe, he’s just saying that holding onto anything that makes you feel good and safe can do a lot, whether it’s Jesus, stargazing or baking.”</p><p>“Why didn’t he just say that?”</p><p>Nicolò shrugged. “I don’t have his way with words.”</p><p>Sébastien raised his glass to Yusuf. “Well, Joe, I don’t get anything out of admiring the night sky or literature like you do. If God exists then he is letting Satan inflict the suffering of Job on me now, killing my family, taking everything I knew away from me, just so I can embody perseverance,” he mumbled miserably. ”And I’d rather not live with that mind-set, especially since I can’t kill myself, so it’s better for me to know that there is no intent or plan, and this is just random.”</p><p>Nicolò paled. “Can you just try to look on the bright side for once?”</p><p>“Bright side of what?”</p><p>Nicolò decided not to pursue the argument.</p><p>“What about you?” Sébastien asked Yusuf. “I know your worldview isn’t as rosy as Nicholas’ but do you still linger in your old faith for guidance?”</p><p>Yusuf snorted. <em>“Always I have and will scatter God and gold to the four winds. I delight in what the Book forbids and free what is allowed.”</em></p><p>“Uh…Ibn Zaydun?” Sébastien guessed.</p><p>“Abu Nuwas. It’s a shame I never got to meet him, we could have had interesting discussions.”</p><p>He nodded appreciatively. “Speaking of the Book, did yours give you the false hope, hollow promises, threats and disproved facts as well?”</p><p>“Don’t they all?”</p><p>“Is there a blueprint?”</p><p>“Most likely, people tried coming up with explanations in the past to explain how everything around them worked, and things either persisted or were discarded as cultures and level of society changed. It’s not just Abrahamic religions with outdated explanations.”</p><p>Yusuf had done an in-depth research of a variety of religions, defunct, old and new. Some days he wished that the sect he was raised in was Sufism. The mysticism it floated through, where some groups disregarded sharia, and the use of allegory rather than literalism would have made his existence initially easier to deal with.</p><p>That, or to have had the chance for his land’s native religion to survive and be practiced. Amusingly, polytheism was making a small comeback in many countries—at least where it was safe to declare one was worshipping heathen gods.</p><p>But he only thing he cared kneel or prostrate himself before was Nicolò, and the only altar he’d worship at was his hips.</p><p>“Like what?” Sébastien prompted.</p><p>“Atlas holding up the sky, really any concept of the sky as a dome or ceiling. Storms meaning a sky god was battling or angry, and active volcanoes being forges or housing temperamental spirits. Earthquakes being something trapped beneath the earth stirring, or the monster’s carcass we resided above demanding blood to stay sated.”</p><p>“Still no explanation for dragons being in almost every ancient culture,” Nicolò added.</p><p>Yusuf was caught off guard, but relieved that Nicolò wasn’t put off by Sébastien's moroseness. “This again?”</p><p>“What’s the explanation for people continents apart having the same strange creature?” Nicolò gestured passionately. “You told me that there was historical inspiration behind the story of Noah’s flood, that was predated by a Sumerian tale, and the Greeks have one too, so why is there no basis for dragons?”</p><p>He couldn’t help smiling at him, at how he radiated hope and optimism. “Nicky, you’re starting to sound like those people who think humans coexisted with dinosaurs.”</p><p>“We coexist with a dinosaur,” said Sébastien. “Her name is Andromache.”</p><p>Nicolò howled, laughing so hard he ran out of breath.</p><p>Yusuf set down his glass and started massaging Nicolò's shoulders. “Okay, let’s change the subject. Are we staying here for Halloween?”</p><p>“They celebrate that here now?”</p><p>“Lots of countries do, it’s an excuse to eat candy and dress up,” said Yusuf. “We haven’t done that in a while, it should be fun.”</p><p>Sébastien nodded, taking another large gulp of his drink. “Are you dressing up as the Mummy and Frankenstein’s Monster again? Do I get to be Dracula?”</p><p>That proved the perfect distraction for Nicolò, who relaxed under his hands. “I ought to, after all I inspired Mary’s story.”</p><p>Yusuf chuckled bitterly, remembering how he lost his composure when Percy Bysshe Shelley’s drunk delusional self accused Nicolò of seducing his grieving girlfriend and shot him. Yusuf inspiring his poem <em>Ozymandias </em>through their talks about Egypt was not enough of an apology.</p><p>“It’s that or you go as a knight again,” Yusuf suggested, stroking Nicolò's hair, it was longer now, parted a third of the way, giving him thick side-bangs, locks tucked behind his ear, one of them was pierced. “I can be a prince for you.”</p><p>Nicolò gave him a mischievous smirk. “Actually there’s been this trend of people dressing up in ridiculously revealing outfits of characters from popular culture, I’ve been meaning to try that.”</p><p>“You want him to be a Sexy Mummy?” Sébastien snorted.</p><p>“More like Sexy Jafar.”</p><p>Yusuf did a spit-take and choked on his laughter. “Seriously?”</p><p>“I told you, the man in that live-action <em>Aladdin </em>looks like you when you shave your head!”</p><p>“He doesn’t but I’ll take the compliment.” He leaned back in his seat, arm over the back of Nicolò's chair. “What does Sexy Jafar entail?”</p><p>“The hat is optional, but the snake-staff, the red and black coat, open on your bare chest, maybe some eyeliner.”</p><p>“Eyeliner? We haven’t worn that since the Nineteen-Eighties.”</p><p>Nicolò wrinkled his nose at him, that was an exhausting decade, but in an interesting way. They tried way too many drugs just out of curiosity and availability, and most were terrible experiences. “You always looked so good in it.”</p><p>“So did you.”</p><p>Sébastien set down his empty glass, rubbing at his eyes. “Could you two stop?”</p><p>Nicolò flushed, more from the alcohol than embarrassment, resting his head on Yusuf’s arm. “Relax, we’re not going to go at it in public.”</p><p>He didn’t seem convinced, eyelids heavy with disdain. “You did a lot of that in the end of the last century.”</p><p>“A lot of others were doing that!” Yusuf defended. “And to be fair, we were on drugs, a lot of drugs. We wouldn’t do that under normal circumstances, the Nineteen-Sixties and Seventies were just incredibly stressful and we needed to unwind.”</p><p>“You unwound all right.”</p><p>Trying to remember just how often loosened inhibitions made them exhibitionists, Yusuf recalled one post-mission event in West Germany where they had been out of their minds on psychedelics, and Sébastien had caught them outside their safe-house.</p><p>They’d tried to drag him into joining them with mindless persistence.</p><p>Later, when he’d told them why he was being odd, Andromache had thought it was hilarious and recounted stories of her and Quynh sharing lovers or even other couples. Nicolò looked like he was going to die of embarrassment. Yusuf felt the urge to stick his head in the boiling pot of minestrone, then swore off anything stronger than cocaine before limiting himself to marijuana when the Nineteen-Eighties ended. Sébastien didn’t talk to them for a week and avoided eye contact for even longer.</p><p>Cringing with retrospective embarrassment, he said, “Sorry for stepping over any boundaries.”</p><p>“It’s not that,” Sébastien sighed. “Look, I’m just tired.”</p><p>“I’ll bet, that was a nerve-wracking mission, the bastard threatened to cave in the whole city,” Yusuf said.</p><p>“No, not just today. In general.” He now rubbed at his whole face, fingers through his hair. “I’m tired of being alone.”</p><p>They shared a worried look. Nicolò spoke first. “You can keep traveling with us until our next job, if you like.”</p><p>He hiccuped. “That’s not what I meant.”</p><p>“Then what do you mean? If you don’t want to be alone, come with us.”</p><p>Sébastien sighed, and removed his hands, his eyes were wet and reddening. “Being stuck with you two being the way you are just kind of makes it worse.”</p><p>“What does?” Yusuf asked.</p><p>“I’m lonely, you know that!”</p><p>“But you have us and Andromache.”</p><p>“No, no, I don’t,” he sounded like he was about to start crying. “I want my family back, I want this.” He threw his hands at them, truly crying now. “I want what you have. I want someone who’ll love me and never leave me.”</p><p>Yusuf’s heart shuddered. He gripped Sébastien's shaking hand, giving it a squeeze. “We won’t, we have each other, we’re your family now.”</p><p>He shook his head, mouth trembling. “No, not like that. I want my wife and children back. I want intimacy, affection, a relationship—gah.” He picked up a napkin and wiped his eyes, then blew his nose loudly. “I hate this. Why am I still here? Why me? Why couldn’t I have just died in Russia like I was supposed to? When am I going to die and stay dead, I can’t take this anymore!”</p><p>He was a lot drunker than he originally appeared, they needed to get him out of here.</p><p>Communicating that to Nicolò, they helped him up, and led him out and back to their Munich apartment.</p><p>Sébastien collapsed on his bed, it was a team effort to remove his shoes, jacket and jeans, and tuck him in.</p><p>They settled on the couch, browsing through shows on the available streaming services. One thing Yusuf liked about this decade was the shift away from cable TV, no more episodes interrupted by unending ads, and they could binge-watch anything. The memory of video tapes and wood-box TVs made him shudder.</p><p>“What are we going to do about him?” Nicolò said quietly. “He’s getting as bad as Andromache, and he hasn’t been around that long yet.”</p><p>“I’d suggest therapy, but if he says an eighth of what’s bothering him to anyone they’ll say he’s crazy and lock him up.”</p><p>“We can have him talk to us.”</p><p>“I don’t think he can stand us at the moment, not when he’s in this kind of mood,” Yusuf rested his head against Nicolò's. “He can’t live with or live without us. We’re all stuck with each other.”</p><p>“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”</p><p>“For us it’s not, we’re lucky.”</p><p>Nicolò sighed. “You’re right. I wouldn’t wish our existence on others, especially nowadays when it’s so much harder to <em>just be</em>, but I sometimes wish there was more of us. A community, a way to find more friends and companions for them.”</p><p>“Do you think Booker will be able to love someone else, he’s still hung up on his wife and kids.”</p><p>“He doesn’t remember what his wife looks like, she’s long gone. It’s not like what happened with Quynh, with her still being out there, somewhere, suffering.” Nicolò dropped his head back on the back of the couch. “I don’t know, I just hate that he and Andy are perpetually miserable. I wish we could do something.”</p><p>“We can’t do much besides be there for them.”</p><p>He turned his head, facing Yusuf, long fringe split into messy locks over his sad eyes, the corner of his mouth quirked in a tired smirk. “I know.”</p><p>As he brushed Nicolò's hair off his forehead, the panic from a few years ago resurged. Yusuf really didn’t know what he’d do with himself if something happened to Nicolò. If they ever had a real threat that could divide them.</p>
<hr/><p>The possibility became too real when a a little while later. They were in the middle of their tour of the western Mediterranean, zigzagging from Italy to Tunisia then from Spain to Morocco—which Yusuf’s brain still insisted on calling Marrakech—when, via Sébastien, they were contacted by a man called Copley.</p><p>A soft-spoken British man with sad eyes and no traceable history, claiming to work for the CIA of all things, requested their meeting in the <em>city </em>of Marrakech, and there they reunited with Andromache.</p><p>Excited to see her after doing many missions with just the three of them, Nicolò had been carrying around some rare, expensive, high-quality baklava for months, part of an old game of theirs, to see if her ancient tastebuds could pick out each ingredient and pinpoint its origin. They had picked it during their last trip to Istanbul, wherein Yusuf had had jarring flashbacks to the sack of Constantinople, followed by a nauseating rage towards centuries of Ottoman rule, and had to sit on the street, head between his knees and heaving, until Nicolò returned.</p><p>Andromache did pinpoint the origin of the sweet with ease, and Nicolò moaned and groaned about losing again, but it was cause for a lighthearted moment between them. After spying on her talk with Copley, they deemed his cause worth it—a hostage situation, little girls in South Sudan.</p><p>Except there were no girls, just a trap that fed into Andromache’s worst fear: proof of their powers in the hands of shady powers.</p><p>On their route out from Sudan to their safe house in France, their dreams were accosted with jarring flashes of terror and agony, and a young woman’s face.</p><p>“Why now?” Andromache groaned.</p><p>Yusuf, groggy and disturbed, immediately reached for his journal and sketched what he saw while Andromache pinpointed the source to be in Afghanistan.</p><p>Mid-twenties, Black, doe-eyed, round-faced, in the United States armed forces, and she had just had her throat slit.</p><p>There was also something familiar about her that he couldn’t peg, but it made him join Nicky on stressing the need to find her.</p><p>The argument was tense yet brief, but she eventually gave in, taking his sketch.</p><p>“Jesus, she’s just a baby,” Andromache huffed before hopping off the train, heading to retrieve their new immortal while they’d find Copley.</p><p>In an abandoned town outside of Paris they settled, and there Andromache returned to them with the unsettled young woman. From the few words they were given before Nicolò cooked them supper, she had put up an impressive fight.</p><p>Yusuf greeted her with “That’s great that you’re a fighter, you’ll fit right in,” which seemed to be the worst thing to say because for the rest of the meal she maintained her deer-in-the-headlights look, even as she slowly began to ask them questions.</p><p>Somewhere at the start of the awkward small-talk she asked, “So, are you all like Highlander? Was <em>Highlander</em> based on any of you?”</p><p>Sébastien rolled his eyes, “Just when I thought we were done talking about those stupid movies,” and Nicolò tried to smother his laughter so he wouldn’t spray bits of the food he was chewing.</p><p>“Maybe it was inspired by you, Booker. Wasn’t the actor French?”</p><p>Sébastien flipped him off and Nicolò wheezed.</p><p>Nile looked between them slowly, processing. “So, that’s a no?”</p><p>“It could have been inspired by someone who lived long before the three of us did at least, maybe there was an immortal somewhere in what we now call Scotland,” Nicolò suggested, covering his mouth as he talked with his mouth full, humor glimmering in his eyes. “Do you think we inspired anything at some point?”</p><p>“Andy said she was worshipped as a god, is that true?” Nile sounded uncomfortable with that prospect, fiddling with her necklace, a small cross. He knew Andy must have given her a hard time about that, and it was best not to engage Sébastien in religious discussion because they tended to leap headfirst into the pit of despair.</p><p>“It is very likely she inspired a few goddesses of antiquity,” Yusuf said.</p><p>There was another awkward pause filled with the sounds of chewing before Nile asked them more questions, about their ages, morals, and jobs. She didn’t seem to like any of the answers she got, a part of her must have been hoping that she was dreaming or that this was an elaborate prank.</p><p>That was one good thing about modernity, people instinctively discounted the supernatural, so if someone did see one of them healing unusually fast they were waved off as being high, stressed or crazy.</p><p>As Nicolò carefully moved around Nile, asking if she needed anything, then urged her to get some rest, and Yusuf knew that he was already getting attached.</p><p>They were cleaning up when he murmured to him, “I think she’s going to make a break for it, so don’t.”</p><p>“Don’t what?” Nicolò hummed.</p><p>“Don’t go into Big Brother mode just yet,” he cautioned. “She’s been through a lot in a short time and might be spooked further by some strange man fussing over her.”</p><p>Nicolò gave him a sharp, irritated look. “Would you prefer I rag doll her like Andy did? I’m just trying to be welcoming, calm her, and maybe that will be what keeps her from fleeing.”</p><p>Throughout history and their travels, Nicolò tended to gravitate towards certain young women and instill this instant love and care for them. Even long before he’d told Yusuf the truth about his background, he’d sensed that Nicolò was aiming to fill a hole in his heart his sister had left.</p><p>“Nicky, I know how you get about wide-eyed girls, I just don’t want you to get your hopes up because this one’s immortal. She’s not—”</p><p>“Not what, Joe?”</p><p>“She’s not Caterina. Or Quynh.” Yusuf avoided the brief hurt look on Nicolò's face before rummaging in the stuff Nile arrived with, to find any tracking devices or turn off her phone’s locator.</p><p><em>“I’m not stupid, Beppe,”</em> Nicolò grouched. “I know she’s not their replacement, but a new sister for us all.”</p><p>There it was, the hopeful, warm, loving nature that he took selfish comfort in all these years. It was hard to chide him for him, but he just hated seeing him upset.</p><p>Everything came to a sharp halt when saw her phone’s wallpaper, a picture of a middle-aged woman and young man, then it hit him why he found her so familiar.</p><p>Twenty years ago, he’d met all three of them in a coffeeshop in Chicago.</p><p>All of the sudden, he understood what Nicolò felt, a responsibility towards her, especially since now, she would become like Yusuf himself, needing to fake her death in combat to let her family grieve and move on.</p><p>That night, Nile woke them up screaming. Yusuf jerked back off Nicolò, who whipped out the gun under his pillow, and found her sitting up, panting. Nicolò urged her to confide in them, and it was like being backhanded.</p><p>He had just warned Nicolò that Nile wasn’t a substitute for Quynh and she had dreamed of her and her unending agony beneath the waves.</p><p>The backstory proved too much to handle, not just for them, but Nile as well who got up and left.</p><p>Not long after that they were blindsided by a bomb.</p><p>Next thing Yusuf knew he was in an armored van, at the feet of mercenaries, and Nicolò was unconscious by him. Concern ebbed the longer he took to wake up. This position they were in now was too similar to back when they’d first met, when they were in Sinai and ambushed by men who suspected them of leading the Crusaders into their land.</p><p>Heart in his throat, he gently brushed his shoulder. “Nicolò.”</p><p>No response.</p><p><em>“Nicolò, awaken.” </em>He tried again in old Italian, a firmer touch.<em> “Nicolò, awaken!”</em></p><p>The merc jerked his hand away and his anger skyrocketed.</p><p>Nicolò was roused, groaning as he sat up. <em>“I’m here, I’m here. Wherever here is.”</em></p><p>“I need to make sure he’s okay.”</p><p>“That’s sweet. What is he, your boyfriend?” the merc taunted, encouraging the rest of them to laugh mockingly at them.</p><p>Yusuf ground his teeth, his anger amplifying, a vein throbbing in his forehead. The last thing he needed after centuries of this shit was to be mocked and belittled by their kidnappers. Yusuf had moth-eaten shirts older and more useful than this jackass.</p><p>
  <span>“You're a child. An infant. Your mocking is thus infantile,” he spat, amped up. “He's not my <em>boyfriend</em>. This man is more to me than you can dream. He's the moon when I'm lost in darkness and warmth when I shiver in cold. His kiss still thrills me, even after a millennia. <em>His heart overflows with the kindness of which this world is not worthy of.</em>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love this man beyond measure and reason.” He slowed his rant, breathing softer as his own words registered with him. “He's not my boyfriend. He's all and he's more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicolò looked pained, but his eyes were soft with love as he leaned in. “You're an incurable romantic.”</span>
</p><p>When they met in a kiss, he murmured against his lips, “I bet we can knock them out in five minutes?”</p><p>“I say ten,” hummed Nicolò.</p><p>After a minute of stunned silence, the mercenaries pulled them apart and that’s when they flung their heads back, smashing the faces of the men holding them before twisting into various angles with sharp and lethal precision, jamming their shoulders into necks, elbows in eyes and throats, kicking the faces across from one another, body-slamming any who stood then kneeing them in the crotch and kicking their feet out from under them to stomp on their heads.</p><p>They were all knocked out in around five minutes.</p><p>“What do you win in this bet?” Nicolò asked, panting, flushed with exhilaration. They haven’t been held captive in a while, and it was always fun to test how good they were with their hands bound.</p><p>“Next Halloween you dress up as a Sexy Priest.”</p><p>“And what does a sexy priest wear exactly?”</p><p>Yusuf leered at him. “Nothing but the frock and collar.”</p><p>Nicolò cracked up, his laughter filled the small space around them. “Isn’t sexualizing something inherently religious a bit weird?”</p><p>“Tell that to all those sculptures and paintings of Naked, Pretty Boy Satan.”</p><p>“Well, going by the theory that he had to be attractive enough to deceive you into trusting him and sinning, it’s an apt warning against blind trust of beauty,” Nicolò argued, though amused.</p><p>“Warning, sure, that’s what it is,” Yusuf hummed thoughtfully. “Where can we pinpoint the start of him going from being the ugly-as-sin version we grew up with in the Middle Ages to the embodiment of temptation he is today? I don’t recall Iblis being Alcibiades.”</p><p>Nicolò nodded, lower lip curled in consideration. “Personally, I blame <em>Paradise Lost</em>.”</p><p>When the armored van was opened and the mercs spilled out, they smugly greeted the traitor Copley, engaging in lighthearted banter as his men marched them into a private jet.</p><p>The trip was short, a quick leap into England judging by what Yusuf managed to glimpse through the windows of the jet and the windshield of the van transporting them into a large, corporate building.</p><p>Part of him wanted to struggle and knock them out again, the other was curious about what fueled Copley’s betrayal.</p><p>He had to say he was disappointed when they were presented with a sniveling British brat brimming with unrestrained Golden Child narcissism as he quoted Shakespeare and prattled on about how he pleased he was to see them. Not exactly Bond villain-tier.</p><p>Yusuf couldn’t resist slamming his head into Merrick’s face. “There’s your balance, asshole!”</p><p>Merrick’s response was to repeatedly stab him with a letter opener. Yusuf doubled over, restrained by the mercs, through the pain he could hear Nicolò struggle and shout.</p><p>Brought to their knees, squirming with agony, Yusuf could only lean towards Nicolò, who met him halfway, pressing their foreheads together. He couldn’t yet tell how they were going to get out of this mess, but he hoped they at least kept them together.</p><p>As his stab wounds healed, Merrick seemed pleased with his proof and the next thing he knew they were in a lab, strapped to tables while Merrick’s scientist stabbed them with a variety of instruments, extracting samples from them with excruciating precision.</p><p>It was one thing for him to suffer it, it was another to watch Nicolò squirm and scream in agony.</p><p>At some point, he blacked out from the pain and when he came to, he found Nicolò watching him.</p><p>“As much as I like to watch you sleep, I’m glad you’re awake,” he said tiredly, and Yusuf’s heart clenched.</p><p>“Bedhead?” he mumbled, trying to be lighthearted.</p><p>“Nicely tousled.”</p><p>Nicolò grew quiet for a minute, then wistfully said.“You know, I was thinking, about that time in Malta.”</p><p>Head still foggy, he frowned at Nicolò. “What time?”</p><p>Nicolò gave him a look that was so out of place in their situation, but catapulted him back through time, to Oscar Wilde’s party, where Nicolò had arrived to seduce him in one of the manor’s empty rooms. Frustrated by their prolonged celibacy in Victorian England, he demanded a trip to Malta for privacy and reigniting their passion.</p><p>Yusuf felt himself growing warm all over, laughing. “Oh, <em>that time </em>in Malta.”</p><p><em>“We should go back there,”</em> he sighed in Italian.</p><p><em>“That’d be nice,”</em> he agreed.</p><p>That was, if they got out of this mess. If the horrors of human experimentation they had witnessed in the last century were anything to go by, they could be here for months, years. They were in uncharted territory, and by extension, in such deep shit they might as well have been drowning in a sewer.</p><p>Things got worse when Sébastien and Andromache were hauled into the lab, and she was in terrible shape and, apparently, not healing.</p><p>When Sébastien explained what led to them being here Yusuf saw red.</p><p>Berating him at the top of his lungs, practically spitting with fury, he wanted to fly off his bed and strangle the miserable bastard.</p><p>The nerve of him! After all these years together to go behind their backs and put them in such danger, knowing just how this was what they feared the most from the modern world! <em>Who would do this to their own family?</em></p><p>When Nile burst in later, covered in blood splatters and panting with relief, he was still on his tirade and had to be held back from attacking Sébastien by Andromache’s tired plea.</p><p>She was right, he needed to save his fight for their way out of here. He could pitch Sébastien off the London Eye later. Now, they needed to get out of here and keep Andromache safe from any more harm.</p><p>It wasn’t as fast and as easy as they would have liked with the added fear for Andromache, but they managed to get out of the lab, acquire weapons and follow Nile through the path she took.</p><p>They were separated when a bomb was thrown into the room they were in, and Yusuf was knocked down hard. He was slowly coming to when Nicolò jumped to fight Keane, keeping him away from Yusuf.</p><p>He sat up just in time to be met with the horrific sight of Keane grabbing Nicolò by the hair and shoving the gun in his mouth.</p><p>A scream ripped from him and Keane was gone. He couldn’t remember what happened between then and when he had crawled over to Nicolò on the rubble, leaning over him, heart squeezing its way up his throat as he looked down at the dead eyes and bloody mouth.</p><p>He relived the past in the worst way, the first time he watched Nicolò be murdered by someone else, when people in Sinai held them both down and all he could see in the midst of being stabbed was Nicolò's throat being slit.</p><p>The tinny whistle in his ears was joined by the thundering of his heartbeat. Nicolò remained still and he was on the breaking point, about to sob.</p><p>This couldn’t be it. Andromache and Nicolò couldn’t be losing their immortality at the same time…</p><p>He couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t live without him<em>. He couldn’t.</em></p><p>After what seemed like an eternity, Nicolò surged up with a gasp and Yusuf could have cried from relief.</p><p>He gripped his arm, feeling the pulse under his fingertips, eyes wet.</p><p>Nicolò's hands found Yusuf’s forearms and they held onto each other, wheezing until they moved to sit up.</p><p>“Andy,” Nicolò gasped.</p><p>Always thinking of others, even when he had just been shot in the head.</p><p>The world didn’t deserve him.</p><p>Meeting back up in the midst of a sickening amount of windows, they tried to think of a plan to stop Merrick.</p><p>But all Yusuf wanted to do was take out Keane. Merrick could meet his end at the blade of Andromache’s axe, but his bastard bodyguard was his.</p><p>And that’s how it went, with him whaling on Keane.</p><p>“You shot Nicky,” he said, radiating rage. “You shouldn’t have done that.”</p><p>It was a swift kill, but the snap of Keane’s neck was satisfying, almost burying the echo of the gunshot in his ears.</p><p>After Nile tackled Merrick out the window, they met them on the ground, herding themselves into the nearest car and finally getting as far away from that place as possible.</p><p>He clutched Nicolò's hand the whole ride.</p>
<hr/><p>As they wound down in a safe spot Copley had provided, with rooms far apart and soundproofed enough for him and Nicolò to not disturb anyone, Nile was debating whether to call her family.</p><p>“Want me to do it for you?” Nicolò suggested, rubbing her back comfortingly. “I can call, say I’m your Marine friend and that, in case you died, you wanted me to contact them. I can be very convincing.”</p><p>Smiling sadly, she shook her head. “Not with that accent you won’t.”</p><p>“Andy is the only one with a convincing American accent,” Yusuf said, sitting on her other side on the couch. “She can do it.”</p><p>Nile delicately wiped her tears on her knuckles, sniffling. “How come you all have accents and she doesn’t?”</p><p>“Because she doesn’t remember what she originally sounded like,” Yusuf explained. “She’s seen the development of civilization, spoken dozens of languages, adopted even more cultures and customs, and lived almost everywhere. Her mother tongue is long dead, so when she speaks a new one, another extinct language gets erased from her mind, accent and all.”</p><p>“We still have accents because we still speak our native tongues—or a modern form of them, we remember who we used to be before we became immortal.” Nicolò added. “We’re also pretty sure Andromache isn’t even her birth name, but one given to her by the Mycenaeans.”</p><p>“Did she say that?”</p><p>“No, but it sounds like an epithet a war goddess would have,” said Yusuf. “<em>Andro</em> is ‘man’ and <em>Mache</em> is ‘battle’, which I’m guessing means she was invoked by warriors before battles.”</p><p>“God, that is so crazy, and depressing.” Nile paused, frowning. “Wait, you said development of civilization, was she in Mesopotamia? I did a term paper on it!”</p><p>“She says she was the influence for the war-goddess Ishtar,” Nicolò chuckled, managing to seamlessly pronounce the at the ع-sound at the start of Ishtar. Yusuf beamed at him, proud.</p><p>Nile spluttered, her mind blown. “Then why doesn’t she help archeologists with cracking dead languages and forgotten history, she could change the past as we know it!”</p><p>“She doesn’t because, like we said, she can’t remember what she hasn’t used in millennia—and because of what we just narrowly avoided,” Yusuf explained. “Very few would seek us out for our knowledge alone, the rest would do what Merrick tried to, cut us open and see how we tick.”</p><p>Nile flopped back against the couch cushions, defeated. “Why do people suck so much?”</p><p>“Sparing you the philosophical debate on whether Man is inherently evil or not, the people that suck to the extent of causing damage are usually a powerful few that most good people have no sway over,” Nicolò said. “We need to remember that, because the innocent and helpless that are at their mercy are who you’re going to be helping.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know. I joined the Marines because I wanted to track down the people causing others so much fear and suffering, I wanted to do some good, however minor.”</p><p>Yusuf suddenly remembered her mother, who noticed his pain and comforted him all those years ago, a small gesture that had gone a long way.</p><p>He couldn’t avoid it any longer. “Patricia raised a great girl, and we’re grateful for that.”</p><p>Nile turned her head to face him, eyes wide. “How did you know her name?”</p><p>“I met her when you were a child, sat with you for an hour or so in a shop. She noticed I was hurting and tried to help me feel better, understand what was wrong,” he explained watching her sit up, mouth opening in slow-setting shock. “I didn’t realize it at first, but I knew you were her daughter.”</p><p>Hazy recognition settled over her features and she smiled slightly as she spoke. “How come I didn’t notice it was you?”</p><p>“He looks very different without the beard, very soft, and pretty,” Nicolò said fondly. “I didn’t know it was him the first time he shaved, thought someone had broken into our home.”</p><p>The corners of Nile’s eyes crinkled as she laughed.</p><p>Yusuf scoffed. “I’m not pretty, you are.”</p><p>Nicolò rolled his eyes. “My nose can be seen from space, and people avoid me on the street because they think my resting face is mean.”</p><p>Yusuf did not tolerate any self-deprecation, even for the sake of humor, so he really had no choice but to say what he felt. “Your profile is striking, and they’re fools for not seeing that, and all great, admirable beauty is partly intimidating, like tigers, lightning and swords, they command awe and respect.”</p><p>“Boys, boys, you’re both pretty,” said Nile, wheezing with held-back giggles. “Can I just say I love the way you two talk about each other, it’s very refreshing after growing up with parents hating each other being the norm in real life and TV.”</p><p>“You’ll get sick of them soon.” Sébastien had entered the room, half-empty bottle of brandy in hand.</p><p>The lighthearted mood was extinguished. Andy may not have been mad at Sébastien, but she had the crisis of her sudden mortality and the unending pain it spawned to dull her senses. Yusuf, on the other hand, would not forgive or forget that easily.</p><p>He leveled him with a hard, angry stare, and Nicolò just curled the corners of his mouth downward, disappointed, upset, and not in the mood to speak to Sébastien. Nile looked between them, conflicted.</p><p>Sébastien raised his hands in surrender and entered the hallway were his room was.</p><p>“What are you going to do about him?” she asked.</p><p>“He needs to be punished, something that could be just as bad as killing him,” Yusuf said. “What that punishment is needs some discussion.”</p><p>“Isn’t that a bit harsh? I mean, I know it was his fault we had to go through that, but he didn’t mean it…”</p><p>That was such a sweet sentiment that Yusuf felt the urge to pinch her cheeks and coo at her like she were still that child he met in Chicago. As experienced as she was with death and violence, she was still so young, so hopeful. “Intention does make some difference, but not when the end result is still so bad.”</p><p>“Andy is in a lot of pain right now, something she hasn’t dealt with in eons, and it’s because of him,” he continued. “We could argue that it was inevitable that she’d get injured and not heal, but it wasn’t just her he put at risk. We could have been eternal prisoners for those people.”</p><p>“Sounds like hell,” Nile said through her cringe.</p><p>“One of Dante’s circles of hell, yes,” Nicolò agreed.</p><p>“Did you know Dante?” she asked, a glimmer in her eyes.</p><p>“No, we were in Eastern Europe when he was alive, but we met most of the Renaissance artists.” Yusuf stood, he was itching for a thorough shower, the hot water should be back after Andromache and Sébastien's turns. It would take ages to get the blood and dust out of his hair and he doubted Copley provided them with curl-enriching shampoo and conditioner.</p><p>Nile turned to Nicolò, wiggling with excitement. “No way! Did you meet Da Vinci?”</p><p>“We did know Leonardo, he was an interesting man.”</p><p>Yusuf chuckled, remembering how they were when they first met Andromache, pestering her about ancient history and mythology. “I’ll leave you to fill her in. I’ll be back in a bit.”</p><p>They were engrossed in a conversation when he went down the hall to their bathroom. But as he moved to shut the door, he heard a shift in tone.</p><p>“So, back in France, Booker mentioned you used to be a priest,” Nile began quietly. “Can I talk to you about that? Or is that something you want to forget?”</p><p>“No, no, talk to me. Is there anything specific you’d like to know, or do you want to talk to me as a priest?”</p><p>“Both, I guess?” she sounded unsure. “It’s just, I don’t know what to feel or believe anymore, Andy saying she was worshipped as a god, and us being immortal, it doesn’t fit into the world I know.”</p><p>“I understand that very well, and I imagine you must be very confused.”</p><p>She laughed nervously. “Yeah…Do you still believe? In any of it?”</p><p>“Depends. Do I believe in it word-for-word and think the stories were historical fact? No, but do I still see value in what they represent, as allegories, as examples? Yes.” He heard Nicolò shift on the couch, speaking clearer. “The same can be said for most faiths, they help us make sense of our lives and the world we live in, and they can provide comfort and hope where there is none, it helps many go on.”</p><p>“So, you’re one of those ‘faith is personal between you and God’ people?”</p><p>“It’s hard to be part of an organized religion when you’re mostly cut off from society.” He could hear the smile in Nicolò's voice. “But, yes. I don’t think that the constraints applied to define God in the past are accurate.”</p><p>“So, you believe there is a God?”</p><p>“I believe there is something that made us, the universe, and it is inconceivable to our human minds as we are to ants. I don’t think anything is planned to the minute degree, but nothing is necessarily random either, we were given the gift of eternal life and the means to meet for a reason, call it fate, destiny, or God, but there is a higher power.”</p><p>“So, ‘works in mysterious ways’?”</p><p>Nicolò chuckled softly. “Yes.”</p><p>Yusuf was certain she was nodding. “You really think this is a gift? That we are here for a reason, to do some good like you said before or is that just how you’re coping?”</p><p>“No, I really believe it’s not a coincidence that we all have experience with battle and conflict, and that we were brought together. That we’re form different lands, time periods and backgrounds but can come together and do our best to help the world.”</p><p>“That’s…that’s great. I needed to hear that. It makes me think that this almost worth it.”</p><p>“Worth the lifestyle?”</p><p>“Worth saying goodbye to my family, and being alone for eternity.”</p><p>“You’re not alone,” he said softly. “We will never replace each other’s families, but we are a family, and you are now a part of it.”</p><p>“Thanks, Nicky.”</p><p>Yusuf stepped out quietly to peek into the living room and found them hugging.</p><p>Like he knew he was there, Nicolò looked right at him and smiled softly. Yusuf retreated into the bathroom and turned on the shower.</p><p>As he unbuttoned his trousers and kicked off his shoes, Nicolò entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him. They met each other’s eyes in the mirror.</p><p>Yusuf feigned innocence, stepping out of his dusty, bloodied trousers. “Had a nice talk?”</p><p>“How much did you hear?”</p><p>“…Most of it. I know I shouldn’t have, that she only wanted to talk to you about it, but I couldn’t help wanting to know.”</p><p>Nicolò nodded, coming up to him, hands held for the ends of his shirt. “She’s still very conflicted and confused, she must have sensed that talking with Andy and Booker would have been no help, and you, well, I don’t know.”</p><p>Yusuf raised his arms and let Nicolò peel the ruined shirt off him. “I was never Christian, I don’t know what she could be thinking.”</p><p>“You never quite had a crisis of faith, I remember we had a few arguments about that as we traveled to Cairo.”</p><p>Yusuf tried not to cringe. He was a bit harsh about Nicolò's lingering doubts, and how he seemed to lapse back into fear, guilt and twisted himself in knots to rationalize their existence. They were moods that came and went, what he now understood to be anxiety.</p><p>He’d mocked him for praying a handful of times, argued that by virtue of praying to saints, three entities as one god, and his Marian devotion meant that he was effectively a polytheist. It wasn’t until they came across Sunnis who pegged Yusuf as Shi’ite from his speech and accused him of blasphemy, made jokes about him whipping himself, and being a delusional infidel for ‘worshipping the Imam Ali’, that he realized he was being needlessly cruel. And that he too had a lingering attachment to the teachings he grew up with, the harmless ones at least.</p><p>Nicolò had opened up to discussion around the time Yusuf had calmed down, but it wasn’t something that came up often anymore aside form neutral talks, usually humorous or philosophical.</p><p>“No, I don’t think I did, not like you or Booker did,” he admitted. “I think I used this as the proof I needed to get away, to reinforce the doubts I had, rather than a cause for doubt.”</p><p>Nicolò made an uncertain noise then moved to take off his own shoes and socks.</p><p>“Joining me?”</p><p>“Somebody needs to wash the blood and brains out of my hair.”</p><p>Yusuf hissed in sympathetic pain, the nightmare-inducing sight of Keane shooting Nicolò's mouth was still too fresh. “I should have gotten to you faster.”</p><p>Nicolò hummed dismissively, holding up his arms for Yusuf to roll the T-shirt off him. “Not the first or last time I’ll be shot in the head.”</p><p>He moved his hands to unbutton Nicolò's trousers, and let him steady himself on his shoulders as he stepped out of them. They always bought the same size but they fit more snugly on Nicolò's legs than his. “I know, it’s just this time it felt different. Something about the way he did it felt worse, personal.”</p><p>Nicolò made an uncomfortable noise. “That was the last thing I wanted in my mouth, and I think he knew it.”</p><p>Normally, he’d take that as a chance to flirt, but he was still too shaken by what they had just been through. “It never stops, does it? Even in the West, where there’s no legal risk and growing acceptance, we still get contempt, jeers and aggression.”</p><p>“We can’t say things aren’t much better now. We’re married, we can hold hands in the street in a good handful of countries and plenty of people don’t bat an eye at us, but there will always be those who aren’t.”</p><p>“I wish there wasn’t such a thing.”</p><p>Nicolò led him to the shower, smirk not quite reaching his eyes. “Can’t have good without the bad, otherwise we’d be out of a job.”</p><p>He closed the glass door behind him, being enveloped by the steam and hot water filling the marble shower. “I know, I just don’t like it.”</p><p>“I think that’s enough negative talk for today.” Nicolò tossed him a bottle of shampoo, which he almost dropped through slippery hands. “Enough talk in general.”</p><p>Just as he squeezed the shampoo into his hair, he gripped his head and brought him close. They kissed softly at first, slippery from the water, Nicolò's hands holding his hips while his own lathered and massaged the bloodied hair and scalp. There were bits of drying grey matter and shattered skull that came out in between his fingertips.</p><p>It took all he could not to cry or throw up. He wished he could kill Keane all over again.</p><p>The kiss did help quiet his mind, but it wasn’t quite enough of a distraction.</p><p>“My turn,” he gasped, pulling back.</p><p>But as Nicolò started washing his hair for him, he knelt between his legs.</p><p>It was a good thing the shower was deep in the house and the sound of the water was like the roar of the waterfall, because he wanted Nicolò to be as loud as he needed, moans echoing off the walls as he pulled on Yusuf’s wet hair.</p>
<hr/><p>They came to the conclusion that Sébastien's worst punishment was to be exiled, a century away from the only friends—only family he had left, that he took for granted.</p><p>They were in a small bar outside of London, discussing among the three of them while Nile had picked at her fish and chips, watching them debate what to do, where to go, and the fallout of Merrick’s actions.</p><p>The government had seized his company, and Copley had cobbled together an explanation for what happened and erased all evidence of their involvement, but the doctor, Kozak, had vanished along with the samples she had taken from them. That didn’t help Andromache’s worry.</p><p>Nile kept sneaking glances outside, where Sébastien waited.</p><p>“Go,” Nicolò said to her. “Talk to him.”</p><p>She played with the ends of her plaits, looking between them. “You guys don’t mind?”</p><p>“You’re free to do as you wish, Nile. We’re not your commanding officers,” Yusuf told her.</p><p>Nodding, she headed out. He could see them chatting.</p><p>“Isn’t a hundred years too long, especially with you being…” Nicolò waved his hand around Andromache. “He’ll never see you again.”</p><p>Irritation spiked within him. “He almost got her killed, then none of us would have seen her again.”</p><p>“He didn’t know that.”</p><p>“That doesn’t matter!”</p><p>“Guys,” Andromache groaned. “We’ve already decided. Nicky, he made his bed by betraying us and now he has to lie in it. It’s that or we chain him up in an abandoned prison somewhere remote.”</p><p>“We could go with that.”</p><p>Andromache gripped his shoulder, shaking him. “Joe, enough.”</p><p>He let out a long breath, cooling his frustration. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make this about me.”</p><p>“It’s about all of us. But right now, I’m the one in pain.”</p><p>He leaned across the table and kissed the side of her head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m just so worked up.”</p><p>“You’re too passionate, you feel so intensely, it’s a wonder you haven’t burned out yet,” she said fondly, patting his beard. “I suppose that’s what turned off my immortality, I burned out all my undying fuel.”</p><p>Nicolò tensed beside him. “Is this really it?”</p><p>She nodded. “Lykon accepted it, saying it was his time, and now it’s mine.”</p><p>His mouth trembled, Yusuf knew he was holding back a blubbering rant, but didn’t want to burden Andromache with his feelings. He’d have to remember to hold him and let him vent his fears later.</p><p>“Well, I better go break the news to him. I’ll meet you outside, then we head to Copley.” Andromache stood, downed the rest of her drink, and limped out.</p><p>Once she was out of earshot, Nicolò let out a shuddering breath. “We’re losing two of them in one go.”</p><p>Oh. So, that’s why he was being soft on Sébastien.</p><p>Yusuf pulled him to his side, rubbing his arm. “It’s okay.”</p><p>Nicolò put his face in his hands, heaving wet sounds of grief. “No, no, it’s not. She’s going to die, and by the time we see him again everything will be different, tense, and resentful, and we won’t be a family anymore.”</p><p>Yusuf swallowed. He hadn’t considered that outcome. He supposed a part of him didn’t process Andromache’s mortality yet.</p><p>Everything was irreparably different now. Now he needed to make sure that their relationship didn’t suffer for it.</p><p>After Andromache bid Sébastien goodbye, they met her outside on the steps where he aimed one last disappointed look at Sébastien before they left him behind. For a hundred years.</p><p>At Copley’s office, he showed them just what Nicolò had been saying all these years. In the midst of a wall of paranoia-inducing evidence of their existence across time and their interference and participation in numerous historical events, he had deduced that they had made the impact Andromache had doubted. Whenever they saved someone, that person, somehow, inevitably made a positive change for humanity, in turn ensuring that the world was, in fact, getting better.</p><p>It was just what they needed to see.</p><p>As Andromache dished out the rules of their deal, Yusuf and Nicolò shared a look, and he could see that the sadness at their group’s changed dynamic had lessened, softened by the hope and faith in their future.</p><p>They weren’t immediately getting to work. Andromache needed time to heal, and Nile time to process and train. Copley offered them a safe location where they could rest, train and use as a base of operations.</p><p>It seemed that Nile couldn’t resist asking, “Does that make you our Bosley?”</p><p>“More like the M to your 007, but sure, why not.” Copley sat on his desk, eyeing them curiously. “Did you by any chance meet Ian Fleming?”</p><p>“We did during the Second World War, while working with British Intelligence for a bit,” Yusuf said.</p><p>Copley’s usually sad eyes livened with disbelief. “I have so many questions for you.”</p><p>“You and me both,” Nile said.</p><p>“Maybe later,” Yusuf said. “If there aren’t any pressing matters, we could use a vacation.”</p><p>“Of course, I’ll arrange transportation to the safe house in Scotland.”</p><p>“I think he means he and Nicky need some alone time,” Andromache said with a slight smile. “Malta again?”</p><p>“What’s in Malta?” Copley asked.</p><p>“It’s our special place,” said Nicolò, his ears turning red.</p><p>Nile raised a curious brow. “Like your honeymoon?”</p><p>“It’s where we first lived after the Crusades, and we go back there regularly. The closest thing to home,” Yusuf explained.</p><p>He saw Copley share a look with Nile, mouthing “The Crusades!”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, we all know that’s where you two go to fuck like rabbits in peace,” Andromache joked, cracking her first smile in what felt like years.</p><p>“Ah.” Copley picked up his phone. “You have a place there, or should I arrange you one?”</p><p>Yusuf saluted him, grateful. “That’s be great, thanks.”</p><p>They parted ways in the building’s garage, Nile heading off with Andromache to Scotland and Yusuf and Nicolò leaving for Malta.</p><p>They arrived in a beautiful seaside house Copley had arranged for them, stocked with food and other necessities, and collapsed into the large, soft bed for almost a full day. All he could remember was taking off his shoes and jeans and rolling onto his side to spoon Nicolò.</p><p>When he rose the next day, or the one after, he found himself alone and the smell of cooking strong in the air.</p><p>Rubbing his eyes, he headed to the kitchen, greeted by bright morning light from the windows and the sound of sizzling eggs and Nicolò humming along to music from the speakers his phone was settled in.</p><p>He wrapped his arms around Nicolò's waist, pressing his front to his back. “Good morning.”</p><p>“Yes, it is.” Nicolò leaned back and Yusuf met him in a soft kiss before jerking back, making a face.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Your beard, it’s gotten too long again.”</p><p>“We didn’t really have the time for consistent grooming before.” He nuzzled the side of Nicolò's neck, making him roll his head further back. “Your hair was in a crew cut for simplicity, and it’s still in the awkward stage.”</p><p>Nicolò moved to the side, sliding the eggs off the pan and onto the plates alongside toast and sausages, bordering a bowl of tangerines. “My hair isn’t what’s between your legs, itching tender skin.”</p><p>Yusuf had to laugh, taking his food and settling at the table overlooking the beach. “Want to shave it for me?”</p><p>He settled across form him, his hair a mess, somehow still appearing tired. “Eat first.”</p><p>Obeying, he quickly put away half his food. Nicolò then peeled a tangerine and moved closer, feeding them to Yusuf piece by piece, a calming gesture that he couldn’t resist escalating by running his tongue over Nicolò’s fingers.</p><p>He thumbed Yusuf’s bottom lip. <em>“Yousefi.”</em></p><p><em>Yousefi</em>. Arabic for <em>tangerine</em>, or <em>‘My Yusuf</em>’.</p><p>“Your Yusuf,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to Nicolò’s palm, where it smelled of citrusy rind. “Where’d you get the tangerines? I don’t remember finding them in the fridge.”</p><p>Nicolò returned to his breakfast. “There’s a citrus grove on the premises, I found it when I went for a walk earlier.”</p><p>Earlier. “Did you sleep well?”</p><p>“I can’t tell. I feel like I just blacked out then woke up, like no time had passed.”</p><p>“Still tired, huh?”</p><p>Nicolò set down his utensils and covered half his face with his hands, breathing deeply. “Yes, I don’t know why.”</p><p>“It’s been a hard couple of days. Our bodies may heal but our minds are exhausted.”</p><p>“Good to know you’ve accepted that your mind’s pain is no different than physical pain.”</p><p>Yusuf rolled his shoulders, slumping back in his seat. “I have, I just still don’t understand why it took so long for it to suddenly weigh me down.”</p><p>“It’s been a hard couple of decades, we were busier than ever before, handling harder stuff, with less time to unwind.” He spread his arms, encompassing the place they were in. “That’s why we needed to come here again, because I feel like I was on the verge of something quite unpleasant.”</p><p>“Just unpleasant?”</p><p>Nicolò rolled his eyes half-heartedly. “A meltdown.”</p><p>“But that was before we found out about Andy and Sébastien was exiled,” Yusuf pointed out. “You suggested we return here earlier. Was there something bothering you beforehand?”</p><p>“I’ve been out of sorts for a few years, and I can’t pinpoint why, just like you can’t tell why you spent the start of this century that way.”</p><p>“Then I’m thinking we stay here longer than a month.”</p><p>Nicolò gave him a coy look. “What will we do with all that time?”</p><p>Smirking, Yusuf got up and caught Nicolò's hand, dragging him through the house and to their suite.</p><p>In their bathroom, Yusuf sat on the sink counter in just his boxers, watching Nicolò as he carefully ran the electric razor over the lower half of his face, then carefully moved on to the hair on his throat, tongue poked out the side of his mouth in concentration. Once he was satisfied, he moved back, letting Yusuf take a look.</p><p>Feeling his smooth, hairless face, he realized he looked more tired than before. “There. Now can I put my face between your thighs?”</p><p>Nicolò's shoulders shook with held-back laughter. “How long do you plan to keep it there?”</p><p>“Until I’m due for another shave.” He tugged at his hair, he could swear that the dust, debris and blood from their trouble with Merrick was still in it. He wondered if Nicolò could feel the broken bone, clotted blood and bits of brain still in his own hair. “Speaking of, want to give my hair a trim?”</p><p>“No.” Nicolò tried not to laugh. “I need something to grab onto.”</p><p>He couldn’t resist wagging his eyebrows at his reflection. He hadn’t looked like this in ages. It helped to look different for a while, as he once again felt different after a new experience, bad or otherwise.</p><p>Nicolò unplugged the razor and started cleaning up the hair. “Is this like the time you shaved, our first time here in Malta?”</p><p>Yusuf joined him, tidying up. “You could say that. Changing things off helps me disconnect from what just happened in a sense, and it does bring me back to that first time here, though I don’t think that’s the time you had in mind when you suggested a return.”</p><p>Finishing up, Nicolò gripped the waistband of his shorts and led him back into their room. “I was thinking either our first honeymoon or that time after we left Victorian England, but the first time will do.”</p><p>Memories of that period had Yusuf’s blood buzzing in his veins like sparkling wine. He missed the fashion of that time, and while the outlines of clothes did get slimmer from the Nineteen-Seventies, framing Nicolò’s body in a way that made him unable to focus on anything else, the association with that time period was mouth-watering.</p><p>Nicolò sat on the edge of the bed and Yusuf wasted no time straddling him, one hand in his hair and the other cradling his face, trying to focus on him as he was now and not when he had been dead beneath him.</p><p>Hands on Yusuf’s hips, he pulled him down, placing him in his lap, fingertips pressing bruising grips into his skin, teeth on his neck. “What can I do to help me disconnect?”</p><p>Yusuf shuddered. “Me.”</p><p>“If you insist.”</p><p>Suddenly, his world spun and he was on his back, with his hands pinned by his head. Yusuf loved when he got like this, an exciting contrast to how quiet and accommodating he usually was, allowing him to relax by alleviating him of control.</p><p>He couldn’t resist grinning like an idiot, but Nicolò didn’t return the enthusiasm, he looked thoughtful, worried.</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“Don’t leave me, ever.”</p><p>“Why would I do that?”</p><p>“I don’t know, you could be sent away like Booker or be taken from me like Andy. Then I’d end up like them, miserable beyond escape.” He tightened his grip on Yusuf’s wrists as he came closer, so his eyes filled his vision. “You’re what makes this unending life and all we undertake worth it.”</p><p>“I thought it was the good we do for the world.”</p><p>Nicolò laughed humorlessly, pressing his nose against Yusuf’s. “Before we even began to help people, by accident or on purpose, I looked forward to waking every day because I knew you’d be there. If you’re not here with me, then what’s the point of being?”</p><p>The tenderness in his eyes and heartbreaking sadness in his voice almost made Yusuf crumble, like it was they who had been faced with sudden mortality. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”</p><p>“Andy lost Quynh and is one unlucky bullet away from losing her life, if it happened to them, why not us?”</p><p>He tried injecting some levity into his voice. “I thought I was meant to be the pessimist between us?”</p><p>Nicolò shook his head. “Every time you die I fear you won’t wake up.”</p><p>“You think that isn’t my greatest fear? Losing you and having to go through who knows how many more years alone?” He raised his head, nuzzling Nicolò's face and pecking his lips once, twice. “Fate brought us together and made us immortal at the same time, it’s only fair that when we do go, we go together.”</p><p>He let out a shuddering gasp, sounding worn out. “You believe that?”</p><p>He didn’t know what to say. Yusuf was not one for belief, never was, but if there was something he had to put his faith in, it would be them. It was also quite fateful that he had met both Sébastien and Nile before they had become immortals.</p><p>“Nicky. Nico. <em>Nicolò</em>. I’m not going anywhere without you, in this life or the next one.”</p><p>He could see Nicolò grinning slightly. “I thought you said there was no afterlife.”</p><p>“I said what we’ve been taught by others who’ve never died doesn’t exist, but whatever is waiting for us on the other side, it won’t take me without you.”</p><p>“Or me without you.”</p><p>Yusuf broke Nicolò's grip on him, pulling him closer by his shirt and wrapping his legs around him, slamming their faces together, coordination be damned as they kissed with desperate passion.</p><p>In the course of a week, they barely left their room, leaving him in a near-constant pleasant soreness. And when they did leave, they spent most of the time strolling in the streets, on the beach or in the sea or tending to their citrus grove.</p><p>Copley must have reviewed their histories or quizzed Sébastien on their habits, because Yusuf found haircare products for his texture, a bookcase of fantasy novels, and a room dedicated to art supplies, with canvases of varying sizes, sketchpads, and all manner of utensils from charcoal, pencils, paints and even a tablet with a stylus.</p><p>That level of technology would have to wait until he was in the mood for it. For now, with his set up moved outside before the landscape of the Mediterranean, calm green waves in the early morning light, he’d have Nicolò pose for him as he lovingly recreated him, hair artfully messy and wearing a beach towel like a toga, the tangerine tree in the corner of the frame.</p><p>He was so beautiful, he put the Moon and all the brightest stars to shame. And he was Yusuf’s. That was something he would never believe, not out of lack of evidence, but out of amazement at his luck.</p><p>“Are you still drawing? I’m getting a little stiff.”</p><p>Snapping out of it, Yusuf set his pencil down and left his stool. “Let’s take a break. What do you want to do?”</p><p>Nicolò glanced behind him at the empty beach. It was a weekday, and too early for tourists to arrive, leaving it empty for them.</p><p>He knew where this was going.</p><p>Taking off his shirt and kicking off his slippers, he advanced. Nicolò retreated, dropping the towel, walking backwards until his ankles hit the frothing seawater.</p><p>Yusuf tackled him into the water, making him laugh loudly, almost drowned out by the sound of the sea.</p><p>The water was cold, and the salt burned softly on his skin, but he acclimated quick and surged up, his hair weighed down with water. Squeezing the water out of his eyes, he opened them to find Nicolò swimming further out and threw himself in a series of strokes to catch up.</p><p>He caught his ankle, pulling him back. “Where are you going?”</p><p>Nicolò stopped swimming, opting to float. “Nowhere, just letting you chase me.”</p><p>Yusuf traded the grip on his leg for his hips, pressing kisses to the side of his jaw. “Careful, I don’t want you washing away. We’ve had enough adventure for a while.”</p><p>He turned his head back, eyes closed, and let out a content sigh. “If you say so.”</p><p>They stayed in the water, idly swimming and collecting pebbles and shells off the seafloor until the sun was at its apex. People would start turning up soon.</p><p>Yusuf headed out first, shaking the water out of his hair, when he checked behind him his breath caught in his throat.</p><p>Emerging from the shimmering waves, water pouring down his body, his hand bunching up his wet, shiny hair, Nicolò gave him a grin that could rival the sun. “What’s with the face?”</p><p>“I’m debating asking you to have me here on the beach.”</p><p>Nicolò wrinkled his nose. “We tried that before in Cuba, sand got everywhere, and it was hot too. Why did we do that again?”</p><p>That was a vivid memory, the hot sand singeing his palms, the rough granules rubbing his knees raw, his moans more from pain than pleasure but he was too caught up in the moment to care.</p><p>Yusuf set his hands on his waist, thumbing his hips, watching as tantalizing droplets trailed down his chest. “We narrowly missed the Cold War becoming an actual nuclear war, and felt like celebrating on the spot.”</p><p>“I’d prefer our celebrations to be comfortable from now on.”</p><p>He moved his hands further down, making Nicolò gasp as he tightened his grip on his ass. “Whatever you need.”</p><p>He came closer, pressing his body against Yusuf’s, walking them into the threshold of their house. “What are you thinking now?”</p><p>“That I want to paint you like this, emerging from the sea like Aphrodite.”</p><p>Nicolò giggled, like the thought was absurd. “Wouldn’t that make me Eros then?”</p><p>“Eros, Adonis, Apollo, I’ll paint you as them all, we’ve got the time.”</p><p>“I take it I’m going to be mostly naked a lot the next couple of weeks.”</p><p>Yusuf hummed appreciatively. “That’s the idea.”</p><p>“I wish I could do something like that for you, to represent how I see you, but I have no idea how.”</p><p>Yusuf stepped back, looking at him fully, standing before the sea, their sea, reflected in his eyes and felt overcome with love. “You do a lot for me by just being you, and I never want you to think that I could want or need anything more.”</p><p>The smile reached his eyes and Yusuf’s heart fluttered just like the first time nearly a millennia ago. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, I went to the Crusades to die and did by your hands, and ever since then I…don’t have the words.”</p><p>“It’s okay, I do.” He looked deep into those eyes, as fathomless as the sea and just as green. “I love you more than there are stars in the night sky.”</p><p>“And my love for you can move the sun and all other stars.”</p><p>Yusuf didn’t remember how they made it back inside. Or how many times he dragged his nails along Nicolò's back and felt his teeth on his skin. Or how many times he told him he loved him. But later that night he laid with Nicolò across his chest, breathing softly, moonlight pouring through the window and illuminating him.</p><p>The sight of him, his effortless beauty invoked Endymion, the sleeping prince who had won the maddening love of the moon goddess Selene, and it stirred the yearning ache of Abu Nuwas, <em>“I die of love for him, perfect in every way, lost in the strains of wafting music. My eyes are fixed on his delightful body and I do not wonder at his beauty. His waist is a sapling, his face a moon and loveliness rolls of his rosy cheek…”</em></p><p>But the rest didn’t apply, to die of a love kept secret, what Oscar Wilde’s treacherous lover Douglas had fixed with the phrase <em>the love that dare not speak its name</em>.</p><p>He didn’t have to yearn, to toil in unrequited love, live in fear of losing him. He had traveled through time and space alongside Nicolò, calling him his own in a thousand lifetimes. They would not be tragically parted like Apollo and Hyacinth, Achilles and Patroclus, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, or even Ruggiero and Bradamante, and they didn’t need comparisons anymore.</p><p>They were Yusuf and Nicolò and nothing was going to separate them. Yusuf would fight Death or God themselves, bare-fisted and furious before he’d be parted from Nicolò.</p><p>They would walk into the next millennia together, listening to the music of eternity.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Don't forget to leave a comment! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧</p><p>You can follow me here on <a href="http://lucyclairedelune.tumblr.com"><b>Tumblr</b></a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>